


Psychic Dreams

by Ankaree



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7941469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ankaree/pseuds/Ankaree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Bodie has dealt with a lot of odd things while working with CI5, but when self-proclaimed psychic, Raymond Doyle, provides explicit details of a murder Bodie's investigating, he begins to suspect that Doyle is somehow more involved than he's willing to admit. Could he be telling the truth about his psychic abilities... or could he be the murderer Bodie is hunting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychic Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the novel, Arousing Suspicions.

Doyle's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in bed. His heart pounded in his ears; perspiration beaded across his forehead. As he attempted to bring his harsh breathing under control, he reached for the glass of water he always kept on the bedside table. Only after taking two big swallows of the cool liquid did he allow himself to remember the dream that had startled him awake.

_Sitting opposite Doyle at a small round table was a man he had never seen before. Doyle reached out, took the man's hand, turned it over and settled it gently into his own palm. Awareness rippled through Doyle and he struggled to centre his emotions, allowing this stranger in on one level, on another keeping him out._

_Blue eyes smiled at him, connected, a hint of desire._

_"Close your eyes," Doyle said, with a smile of his own._

_The man watched Doyle for a second before his lids drifted shut._

_"Good. Now, take a deep breath. Relax. When you're ready, tell me your dream."_

_He was one of Doyle's new clients and, judging from the man's hesitation, uneasy about putting words to personal, private, intimate thoughts. Doyle tried to get a sense of how important this was to the man. How badly the bloke needed to know. However, the energy flowing from him seemed to be turned in another direction, which made Doyle come up with nothing._

_With the stranger's eyes now closed Doyle took the opportunity to study his face. Strong, handsome features. Dark hair. Dark eye lashes. Early thirties._

_When the man began to speak, Doyle let his own lids drift down. The voice was deep, appealing, sexy. Doyle found himself liking the sound very much. As he focused on the man's words, images began to materialise inside his head._

_A sense of uneasiness suddenly skittered across his skin, sending prickles down his neck and spine. Where only a moment ago Doyle had felt comfortable and calm, he now felt vulnerable and exposed._

_The stranger's voice changed, deepened, roughened. More pictures formed behind Doyle's closed lids, but they were as fractured and erratic as the man's words. Doyle could feel his heartbeat begin to quicken. He tried to remain calm, to listen, to see, but his nerves were beginning to fray. The instant he lost hold of the strange images, a huge relief washed over him._

_When Doyle opened his eyes to study the stranger, he gasped in shock and yanked his hand away as though he'd been burnt. The man's knuckles hit the table with a dull thud, fingers curled grotesquely. Slowly, eyes opened to stare directly at Doyle._

_Swallowing hard, Doyle stared back, a shiver of cold dread rushing through his body._

_Gone were the stranger's handsome features and beautiful blue eyes. Now eyes black and empty as night were fixed on him. The man continued to speak, thin lips forming words that made no sense to Doyle._

_Terrified, Doyle pushed his chair away from the table. He jumped to his feet. Before he could turn and run, the man lunged at him. Doyle was shoved to the floor and pinned down. Fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezed. Another hand ripped open the front of his shirt then moved lower to undo the button on his trousers and yank down his zip._

_A scream of denial raced across his mind. He clawed at the man's fingers, fighting for breath, fighting to get away. The grip on his throat tightened, those horrible black eyes telling him exactly what the man intended to do to him…_

Using a corner of the bed sheet, Doyle wiped away sweat from his upper lip and the back of his neck. After taking about ten deep, calming breaths, he finally felt the tension start to ease from his shoulders. His heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. And, in his head, the terrible images began to fade.

Glancing at his bedside clock, he took in the time. Seven ten in the morning. Snatching up his daily planner, Doyle flipped to today's date and checked the schedule. He had a new client coming in at eight-thirty. William Bodie. On the phone the man had sounded a little uncertain. He'd told Doyle that he'd never consulted a psychic dream interpreter before, which could explain the reason for Mr Bodie's hesitation.

Usually, before seeing someone new, Doyle got a feeling of apprehensiveness. It was no different now, but he had little choice about taking on new clients. If he wanted to continue to live in his old Victorian home, he needed to expand his client base.

Being an artist and selling an occasional painting didn't come close to providing the income that was necessary to maintain his home. Repairs were constant, rates outrageous. He needed every penny he made to stay ahead of his creditors.

Most people who sought out Doyle's services did so because they understood how psychic dream interpretation worked. However, on occasion, some clients reacted badly to his revelations, the reasons being either they didn't get what they wanted from a reading, or they got too much.

Cedric Rutherford had been a perfect example of an unsatisfied client. After his reading yesterday his round cheeks had been flushed, his high forehead damp with perspiration.

"I assure you, Mr Rutherford," Doyle had said, releasing the man's hand. "Everything you say, everything that happens in a session, is held in strictest confidence. However, if you want an honest answer, you really must open up and-"

"You're a fake!" Rutherford had yelled, slamming a fist down on the table. "And a liar. I have never cheated on my wife!"

"I am not accusing you of infidelity," Doyle had replied in his most placating voice. "Your personal life is no concern of mine. I make no judgements. I am simply trying to interpret your dream as accurately as I can. It's the reason you came to me, is it not?"

With one pudgy finger, Rutherford had pushed his spectacles back up his nose. Glancing at Doyle nervously, he slowly said, "It is."

Doyle had been through this same sort of thing before with a few other clients. He knew the odds were good that Mr Rutherford really was cheating on his wife. Thinking his secret safe, it had shocked the man that Doyle had picked up on it. And now he was running scared. 

Smiling, Doyle had tried to put him at ease. "Allow me to explain it better. Your dream indicates to me that perhaps you are experiencing some... unresolved issues in your life. That perhaps you are feeling guilty. Your subconscious is trying to cope-"

"That's enough!" Rutherford had bellowed. "I never cheated on my wife!" He had shoved himself away from the table, stood, and pointed a finger at Doyle. "You are a fraud, Mr Doyle. You should be ashamed of yourself, taking people's money and telling them lies." With that, Cedric Rutherford had turned and stormed out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Luckily for Doyle, clients such as Rutherford were quite rare. And he hoped that Mr Bodie would be open-minded and understanding. That they could have a successful session.

Pushing the sheets aside, Doyle rose and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, washed and dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, he headed down to the kitchen. As he prepared tea, images from his nightmare began to form in his head once again. For someone who interpreted dreams, Doyle was lousy at deciphering his own.

The nightmare had brought with it a feeling of importance he had never felt before. It had been terrifying. More than that, it had been solid, real in some way. An indicator dream, perhaps.

But an indication of what?

Sitting at the table, sipping his morning tea, an uneasiness settled into the pit of his stomach. Doyle couldn't help but feel that the dream was a warning that his life was about to change. Whether it was for the good or bad, he had no idea.

***

Bodie stood across the street from the suspect's house, checking out possible points of entry and exit. Definitely one door in front, probably another around back, perhaps a side door as well, but it was hard to be certain from his position. 

The somewhat run-down Victorian house belonged to Raymond Doyle, who conducted business from his office on the ground floor.

But just what kind of _business_ did Mr Doyle _conduct_? That was the question and the reason that Bodie was here.

The person who had lodged the complaint, a Mr Cedric Ruthford, was a jumped-up friend of Cowley's who demanded something be done. Cowley in turn had summoned Bodie, giving him the information and strict orders to get to the bottom of it. 

According to Rutherford, Doyle cheated his clients, took money under false pretences, tendered bad advice, and even offered more _personal_ services on the side – for a hefty fee, of course.

Even though there had only been the one complaint, Cedric Rutherford was a well-respected businessman, who was not only a friend of Cowley, but also had friends in the upper echelons of the local constabulary. As a result, the accusations of fraud and solicitation could not go ignored.

During the time that Bodie had been standing inconspicuously under the large shady tree, no one had gone in or left the house. He checked his watch. It was nearly time for his appointment with one Raymond Doyle, dream interpreter.

"Dream interpreter, my arse," Bodie mumbled under his breath.

Straightening his jacket, he crossed the street. He took the steps leading to the front door two at a time and pressed the doorbell.

A moment later the door opened, and Bodie's heart screeched to a halt. His mouth went dry. His brain shut down. And his testosterone levels shot though the roof. The man who stood before him was bloody gorgeous, in an exotic, tatty kind of way that very much appealed to Bodie.

Doyle's green eyes widened as he looked Bodie up and down, almost a little too frantically it seemed to him.

"Mr Bodie?" Doyle asked. His words were spoken as though he hoped Bodie was someone else.

"Yes," Bodie replied with a smile, wondering why the hell Doyle was gaping at him like he'd just seen the Grim Reaper. "We have an appointment at eight-thirty."

Swallowing, Doyle stared at him for a moment longer before saying, "Yes, we do. I'm Ray Doyle. Come in. Please." Stepping aside, he swung the door open, gesturing for Bodie to enter. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare. You look like someone I met once... sort of... recently. Probably just coincidence."

"What is?"

Doyle smiled and shook his head. "Nothing."

Walking past Bodie, Doyle led the way through the double oak doors into his office. Warm sunshine filtered through the curtains, giving the room a cosy intimacy. In the far corner sat an antique desk, its surface covered with various ledgers and stacks of papers. Soft green paint on the walls, sheer curtains on the windows, a fireplace and an elegant crystal chandelier all lent the room an Old World Charm.

Shutting the doors behind them, Doyle indicated that Bodie should take a seat at the small round table in front of the fireplace.

While Bodie made himself comfortable, Doyle moved around to take the seat opposite him. Leaning slightly forward, Doyle clasped his hands in front of himself on the table. "When we spoke on the phone, you said you'd never consulted a dream interpreter before."

"That's right."

Absently, Doyle brushed a lock of curly hair away from his eyes. The gesture immediately brought Bodie's attention to the man's face. To the striking green, cat-like eyes, the high cheekbones, the full, sensual mouth. Without thinking, Bodie licked his lips.

"How did you hear about my services, Mr Bodie?" Doyle asked.

His _services._ Right. Here we go.

"I have a mate who's a client. You came highly recommended."

"One of my regulars?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Would you be comfortable sharing his name?"

Bodie pretended to give it some thought. "I'd prefer to keep his name out of it."

His answer seemed to disturb Doyle, but he didn't press the issue. Doyle cleared his throat before asking, "Have you been having difficulty sleeping?"

"You might say that."

"Bad dreams?"

"Yes."

Doyle nodded. "Many clients have thanked me for the relief I've given them. They've felt comfortable enough with me, even the first-timers, to strip away all their inhibitions, get down to raw honesty. It's very freeing to unburden yourself in this way, get right to the bottom of things."

"Yeah, that's what my friend said."

Doyle perked up. "I'm pleased to hear your friend was satisfied enough to recommend me to you."

Relaxing in his chair a little, Bodie asked, "How does this work, exactly?"

"Works best when I'm in physical contact with you. If we touch during a session, the results are much more satisfying for us both."

_I just bet it is._

"Would you have any problem with me touching you, Mr Bodie?"

"Not at all." Bodie smiled.

Doyle slid one hand across the table, palm up. With the other hand, Doyle reached for Bodie's, turned it over and rested it in his own. Bodie's knuckles nestled into Doyle's palm, his fingers relaxed into a slight curl. Doyle stared at their hands for a moment then seemed to grow more agitated.

Doyle flicked a quick look into Bodie's eyes, before glancing away. "All right, we're connected," Doyle said, running his tongue over his lips. "Please close your eyes, tell me your dream. As you speak, I'll be able to see images. Then we can talk about what your dream means."

The palm in which the top of Bodie's hand rested was warm and damp, telling him that Doyle was definitely nervous.

So, now he was supposed to relate a dream to Doyle? Bodie didn't dream very often. At least, he didn't remember them. Since this whole thing was utter bull-shit anyway, Doyle would never know the difference if he made something up. Besides, any minute now Doyle was going to stop this charade and offer him sex for money.

And then the game would be over.

***

William Bodie was tall, broad shouldered, muscular. He appeared to be the same age as Doyle, perhaps a year or two younger. And he was handsome. Very handsome. And he exuded a hint of sly mischievousness with an air of scintillating mystery and raw danger. 

When Doyle looked into his eyes, he felt something heavy grow and twist in his stomach. Bodie's eyes were blue, his hair short and dark, exactly like the man in Doyle's nightmare.

He'd never had a prophetic dream in his life, and now here was the man he'd dreamt of only a few hours ago. The man who had been trying to strangle him. When Doyle had first seen him standing at his front door, he'd wanted to slam it shut – and run.

Doyle had many questions rushing through his mind. Such as had he picked up on what Bodie looked like when he'd heard the man's voice on the phone? Was the dream he had a good omen, or, as it had played out, a bad one? Did Bodie mean him harm? If he closed his eyes, would Bodie morph into a horrible creature and try to choke him to death?

Dreams of being killed didn't mean someone was actually going to murder you. They generally symbolised an end of some kind. An abrupt halt to a dilemma you were facing in your waking life. But the nightmare had made Doyle feel out-of-sorts. Now, sitting across the table from the very man whose fingers had been around his throat was very unnerving. 

No, that wasn't quite true. It had not been this man, but the darker, more evil figure Bodie had become who had tried to kill him.

Perhaps it would help if he pressed Bodie to reveal the name of the client who'd referred him. He could then contact the client, ask about Mr Bodie and whether or not the man was telling the truth about himself.

To add to his confusion, the moment Doyle had touched Bodie, images had begun to bombard his senses, totally throwing him off-balance. He'd seen Bodie, he’s seen them, together... _very_ together. Intimately together. Pleasure wound through Doyle; excitement teased his skin.

"Shall we do it now?" Bodie asked, his voice low, suggestive.

Startled out of his thoughts, Doyle searched Bodie's eyes. "Do? It?" It took a second before he remembered why Bodie was here. "Oh! Right! Your dream." Squaring his shoulders, he took a cleansing breath. "Let's close our eyes, and we can begin."

As soon as they did, strong images began to assault his senses. People, their faces blurred. Noises. Voices. The deafening explosion of gunfire. A scream. Laughter. A moan.

Bodie cleared his throat. "I dreamt I was with a man. Someone I'd never met before. He was very attractive and I wanted to sleep with him. But he kept evading me. He wore a green shirt and kept telling me how much he liked green. Finally, I figured out it meant he wanted money." Bodie stopped for a moment, cleared his throat again. "So, I paid him and we had sex."

Doyle frowned. Slowly, he pulled his hand out from underneath Bodie's. Opening his eyes, he said, "Mr Bodie. I'm sure you are uncomfortable with revealing your innermost thoughts to a stranger, however if you aren't completely honest with me, I won't be able to help you."

Bodie opened his eyes. Blue, smouldering, warm. The kind of eyes Doyle could get lost in first thing in the morning, or the last thing at night. Just looking at Bodie made him want to find a bed and let Bodie have his way with him.

But Bodie had lied.

"I told you my dream. Can't you interpret it?" Intelligent eyes challenged Doyle.

"No, I can't. The dream you related to me was not the dream I saw. Wasn't even close."

Bodie shrugged. "What, exactly, did you see?" he asked, tone flat.

"Quite frankly, a mess." Doyle crossed his arms over his chest. For a few moments they sat there, eyeing each other.

"I think it means I'm willing to pay a bloke I don't know to have sex with me."

"And why do you think that is?"

"Well..." Bodie's sensuous mouth turned into a smirk. "Men think about sex, on average, every time they blink. The dream most likely means I want to have sex."

Doyle felt his skin heat, but he was still able to maintain eye contact. "Then why don't you go and have it, mate. You look to be the kind of bloke who doesn't have any trouble getting someone into his bed."

"Came to you so you could interpret my dreams, didn't I. I'm sure it must have a deeper meaning."

"Some dreams are exactly what they appear to be." Bodie blinked and Doyle lifted a brow. "Was it good for you?"

When Bodie leant across the table, Doyle automatically eased back in his chair.

"All right," Bodie admitted. "Perhaps there is no deeper meaning. Can live with that just fine." He paused for a second, shifted a little closer and asked, "What other services do you offer?"

Confused, Doyle scowled. "Other services?"

Bodie's lips curled into a suggestive grin. "I understand you provide your clients with a variety of services."

Doyle relaxed a little. Bodie must obviously mean his artwork. Often, he did custom paintings for people who wanted portraits done. "Yes, of course. Would you be interested?"

"Most definitely," Bodie said smoothly.

Doyle lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. "I'm sure I could accommodate you."

"I'm sure you could." Bodie flicked his gaze over Doyle. "How much do you charge?"

"Depends on how detailed you want it... how long it takes."

Bodie pursed his lips and looked modest. "Well, I've never had any complaints before. And taking your time would be just fine with me. The longer, the better."

Doyle tilted his head. "I'm known for being quick."

"Are you, now? And what if I wanted it slow and more than once?"

"That's fine. But if you want more than one, will have to charge you for extra paint."

Bodie's brows shot up. "Paint?" He seemed to think for a moment. "Kinky. But wouldn't the sheets get a tad messy?"

"Pardon?" Confusion fogged Doyle's brain. "Why would I use sheets when painting your portrait?"

"Painting?" Bodie's eyes widened in shock. "Is that the service you provide?"

"Yes. I'm an artist." Tension tightened Doyle's stomach. "What did you think I was talking about?"

Pushing away from the table, Bodie stood and began to back away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. "How much do I owe you?"

"Mr Bodie, I-"

"I have another appointment. I'm late. Will forty quid cover it?" Bodie slapped the notes down on the table.

Doyle stared at the money. "That's fine. Do you want to schedule another appointment?"

"No." Bodie turned and slid the office door open. "I'll see myself out."

When Doyle heard the front door close, he put his hands to his temples. What had all that been about? Giving his head a little shake, he reached for the money. As soon as his fingers made contact, images began to fill his brain.

_The two of them again, together. Naked. His neck arched back. Bodie's hands all over his body. Pleasure. Then darkness. Loss. Doyle's heart ached. Pain. A man he knew. Another he didn't. Death._

Doyle gasped and his eyes flew open. Bloody hell. Whoever William Bodie was, he was bad news. For some reason, Bodie had lied to him and, quite honestly, he'd had it up to _there_ with men who lied.

Anger warmed his cheeks. Shoving the money into his desk drawer, Doyle slammed it shut and released a long breath. So much for Mr Bodie. With any luck, he would never have to see the man again.

***

Bodie was sipping his tea when the restroom door opened and Betty poked her head in. 

"Hello, love," he greeted her with a smirk.

"Bodie. Someone's come to the front door who insists on speaking with you. Made quite a ruckus and wouldn't leave when asked. Anson's put him in Interrogation Room Three."

Bodie stood, and drank down the last of the liquid from his mug before heading into the corridor. "Got a name?" he asked Betty.

"Says his name is Ray Doyle."

Bodie stopped mid-step. "Sure about that?"

"Of course. You know him?"

"We've met," Bodie stated. He turned and followed Betty toward Room Three. "I'll take it from here." She nodded and continued on her way.

Pausing at the small window in the door, Bodie peered inside. It was Doyle all right and he did not look pleased. He was pacing back and forth, hands balled into fists at his thighs, anger clear on his face.

Releasing a sigh, Bodie opened the door and stepped inside. "Mr Doyle." At the mention of his name, Doyle whirled around and glared at him. "Please have a seat."

"Like bloody hell I will!" Doyle crossed his arms over his chest in a defiant gesture. "Think I'm a berk, do you?"

Bodie held up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I can explain everything-"

"No wonder nothing made sense. You _lied_ to me! You made up that dream, didn't you. Were testing me to see if I was competent. We could have discussed it, you know. I would have told you-"

"Doyle," Bodie interrupted. "We had a complaint. Was my job to check it out."

"A complaint?" Doyle snarled. "From one of my clients?"

Flipping back the edges of his jacket, Bodie rested his hands on his hips. "I understand why you'd be upset, but as I said, there was a complaint-"

"If one of my customers isn't happy, why didn't he just tell me?"

Bodie moved forward and pulled out a chair. "Have a seat." Doyle slid a glance at him, then brushed past him to sit down. Bodie caught the scent of Doyle's shampoo, spicy, evocative. He fought not to reach out and feel for himself if those curly strands of hair were as silky as they appeared to be.

"Good news is, you've been cleared," Bodie said, taking a seat across from Doyle. "The complaint has been closed."

Doyle lifted his gaze. "Who made it?"

"I'm not at liberty-"

"It was Rutherford, wasn't it?" When Bodie didn't answer, Doyle nodded his head. "Thought so."

"Sorry it was necessary to deceive you, but we had to determine whether the complaint was valid or not."

Doyle nibbled absently at his bottom lip. Bodie watched for a moment before forcing his eyes away.

"So," Doyle said, cocking his head and assessing him. "You're not a regular copper. Why did Rutherford complain to CI5 instead of just going to the local police?"

"Has friends in high places, he does."

Doyle leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. "I see."

"I have a question for you, Mr Doyle. How did you know where to find me?"

"Have you already forgotten what I do? Who I am? Saw it in a dream. This building and address, the name CI5, you, William Bodie – agent 3.7. Didn't take much to put the pieces together."

Bodie gaped at him for a second. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I do. Especially since _I'm_ not the one who's a liar."

"You were a possible criminal. Did what I had to in order to learn the truth."

"A criminal?" Doyle gasped, shocked. "Exactly what did Mr Rutherford tell you? What did he accuse me of?"

Bodie looked Doyle in the eye. "A charge was made of fraud and solicitation."

"Solicita...? What!"

For a second Bodie thought Doyle might jump up and make a run for the door, instead he stayed seated, face flushed with anger.

"He accused me of being a whore?" To Bodie's surprise, Doyle burst out laughing. "Just because I found out he-" Doyle stopped himself, and looked away.

"You can file harassment charges against him if you wish. But I warn you, it would be hard to prove."

Doyle shook his head and smiled. "No need. What goes around comes around. He'll get his in the end."

"Not contemplating retaliation against Mr Rutherford, are you?"

"No need. Karma will take care of the likes of him."

"As long as Karma isn't a hit man."

Doyle chuckled. "Not my cup-of-tea, mate."

"Good." Bodie took a deep breath and straightened in his chair. "Let's move on to the other reason why you're here."

"What?"

"Know you didn't come here just to bite my head off. Come on, spit it out."

"How did you...?" Doyle trailed off, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Have _you_ forgotten what _I_ do, Mr Doyle? Didn't become one of CI5's finest on just my outrageously good looks." Bodie grinned brightly. 

Doyle glanced first at Bodie then down at his hands. He seemed to think for a minute before giving his head a quick shake. "Never mind. Was a stupid idea." Doyle moved to get up, but before he could stand, Bodie reached across the table, fingers curling around Doyle's wrist. The skin was soft, warm. Doyle tugged on his hand. Bodie tugged back.

"Are you restraining me?" 

"No. I'm encouraging you to remain seated and tell me why you're here."

Doyle eyed Bodie. "I want a different agent."

"Why?"

"I don't like you. And since you lied to me, I don't trust you."

Bodie blew out a short breath. "Look, mate. Let's put all that aside, shall we? Something has obviously happened. Let me help you."

Doyle's expression grew serious and he shifted in his chair. He reached into his jacket pocket, hesitated, then pulled out a newspaper clipping. Placing the paper on the table, Doyle slid it over to Bodie. It was dated two days ago.

"Body of slain woman found in St. James's Park," Bodie said aloud, reading the headline. His eyes sought Doyle's. "You have information regarding a murder?"

Doyle paused, almost as though he were assessing Bodie, judging whether or not to trust him with the information. Finally, his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he gave a quick nod.

"I think I know who killed her."

***

Doyle watched as Bodie shifted forward, leant his elbows on the table and entwined his fingers. 

"Are you saying you witnessed this crime?" Bodie asked

Doyle shook his head. "No."

"The killer confess to you?"

"No."

"Did you see who dumped the body in the park?"

"No."

Pursing his lips, Bodie watched him for a moment. "Help me out here, Doyle. The twenty-questions thing is fun, but I'm really lousy at it."

Before he could change his mind, Doyle said, "I have a client." From the look on Bodie's face, Doyle knew the agent wasn't going to believe him; sceptics never did. It didn't take a psychic to see this wasn't going to go well. Still, he'd come this far.

"You have a client," Bodie repeated. "Go on."

"Came to me several weeks ago. Described a dream where he killed a woman in St. James's Park. I think he's the one who may have done it." He flicked a finger in the direction of the newspaper clipping. "When he described the dream, I saw the murder."

Setting his hands flat on the table, Bodie drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. "That's your evidence? You think your client is possibly guilty of murder because of a dream he had? Do you have any other reason to believe this man committed a murder?"

"No."

There was a minute of silence before Bodie said, "Thank you for letting me know-"

"I _knew_ you wouldn't believe me." Shit! Why had he put himself in a position, yet again, to be doubted and dismissed? You'd think by now he would have learnt his lesson!

Over the last few years, Doyle had tried to use his psychic abilities to help the authorities, but the police rarely let him. Since his particular gift was tactile, if he didn't have something to touch, he couldn't get a clear image. As a result, his best efforts often failed and he came off looking incompetent, like a loony.

Coming here had been a huge mistake. Despite his sexy voice, good looks and soft blue eyes, Bodie was no better than the rest.

"Fine." Doyle sighed.

Bodie eased back his chair and rose. With a look of profound displeasure on his face, he said, "You've just wasted my time, Mr Doyle. I hope you're happy."

"No, Bodie, I'm not, you closed-minded arse!" Doyle snarled. "I came here because I felt I had knowledge that might help."

"Did your client tell you he'd killed this woman?"

"No," Doyle replied, irritated.

"Dreaming of committing a murder is not a crime. What evidence can you provide? Evidence," Bodie added, "that would stand up in a court of law."

"None. But I know what I saw. Judging from that newspaper article, the similarities to the actual murder and my client's dream are stunning."

" _Stunning_?" Bodie grinned. 

Now Bodie was laughing at him. For a second Doyle was almost willing to let this pass because Bodie had the most incredible smile...

Heat radiated between them as they glowered at each other. Then Bodie's grin began to slowly fade. Doyle knew the exact moment Bodie became aware of him, not as some wacky psychic, but as a sensual being, as a man. Something changed in Bodie's eyes. His stance shifted. His gaze drifted down Doyle's body and back up again. His breathing altered slightly.

The spell was broken when Bodie quietly said, "I need solid evidence or an eyewitness, without them there's nothing I can do." Reaching inside his pocket, Bodie pulled out a white business card, a single phone number the only thing printed on the surface. "If anything more solid presents itself, call this number. Whoever answers, ask to speak to me." 

As Doyle took the card, his fingers brushed Bodie's. In that split second he saw them once again. Together. Naked. In a passionate embrace. However, this time Doyle felt him, too. Bodie's hands roaming over his chest and back. He could hear soft music playing and all around them the smell of lilac.

He must have made some kind of noise, because Bodie frowned and asked, "Are you all right?"

Slipping the card into the back pocket of his jeans, Doyle headed for the door. With his hand on the knob, he bit out, "The article said the woman had been strangled, her body left under The Blue Bridge on the north side."

"Yes."

"Can tell you what the article doesn't say... the colour of the outfit she was wearing."

There was a momentary silence as Bodie glanced through the article. "No, it doesn't mention the type or style of clothing."

Doyle nodded, turned the handle and opened the door. "It was a dress. Purple. With small yellow flowers. Good day, Mr Bodie."

***

Doyle was just sitting down at his kitchen table to read the morning paper when the doorbell rang. Rising from his chair, he tugged his robe closed and moved down the hallway to the front door. Pulling it open, he stood with one hand on the doorknob assessing his early morning visitor.

"Bodie." Doyle scowled. "You do know it's seven o'clock on a Sunday morning. Couldn't this have waited until after I had my coffee?"

"You drink coffee?" Bodie gave him the once-over. "Somehow I pegged you as the herbal tea type. Bland, like ground up elm bark or dried pomegranate seeds."

Tilting his head slightly, Doyle snared Bodie's gaze. "I can assure you nothing about me is bland."

Bodie's attitude suddenly turned all business-like. "Would like to ask you a few questions. About a purple dress with yellow flowers. May I come in?"

"What else can I tell you that you don't already know?"

"I want to know how you know about that dress."

Bodie was just as handsome as the first time Doyle had seen him. Standing on his front steps, legs braced, hands in his pockets, Bodie looked cool and hot and rough. A little charming, a lot dangerous. Not for the first time, Doyle found himself wanting to drag Bodie up to his bedroom, remove all his clothing to reveal that gorgeous body and...

Bodie's lips curved slowly into a smile, and Doyle's thoughts came to a crashing halt.

"Obviously we got off on the wrong foot," Bodie said. "I apologise. Can we start again?" The perfect smile slid from charming to mesmerising.

Without words, because Doyle's brain suddenly couldn't form any, he swung the door fully open and stepped aside. 

"Make yourself comfortable," Doyle said, pointing toward his office. "I need to get dressed. Be back in a minute."

Ten minutes later, hands, face, and teeth clean, hair brushed into submission, and wearing jeans and a red t-shirt, Doyle walked into his office.

Instead of seeing Bodie sitting at the table like Doyle'd expected, the man had instead taken a seat on the settee in front of the bay window. To ensure he wouldn't accidentally touch Bodie, Doyle sat down in a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

Once Doyle had settled himself, Bodie leant forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and flipped through a note pad. "What's the name of the client who had the dream?" Bodie asked.

"David Malone."

"You certain that's his real name?"

Leaning back in his chair, Doyle replied, "It's the name he gave me."

Bodie's eyes narrowed as he wrote down the name. "Did this David Malone fill out any paperwork? Show ID?"

"No."

"Address?"

"Don't know it."

Bodie pursed his lips. "Phone number?"

Doyle shook his head. "He calls me."

With a flick of his wrist, Bodie tossed his notepad onto the coffee table.

"All right." Bodie sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Let's try something else, shall we. How many times have you seen him?"

"Six."

"Wow, a real answer. Now we're getting somewhere."

Doyle set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

Tapping his pen on his knee, Bodie said, "Six visits. Over what period of time?"

"First visit was a little over three months ago." Doyle paused and waited until Bodie looked at him. "Tell me something, Bodie. Why are you asking me these questions when it's obvious you think you're wasting your time?"

"Because a woman was strangled in St. James's Park. She was dumped near The Blue Bridge. _Because_ she was wearing a purple dress with small yellow flowers."

Doyle's heart tripped inside his chest. "I told you," he said quietly.

"That you did, Mr Doyle. Now tell me, why did Malone say he wanted his dreams interpreted?"

Doyle thought back to the day David Malone had told him about this particular dream. At the time, Malone's words hadn't had much impact. Dreams were symbolic. To dream of killing someone didn't mean you really wanted to kill that person. It usually meant the dreamer wanted to do away with certain waking behaviours or bad memories.

"He said he'd started having dreams. Violent dreams. Felt he was being sent some kind of message but didn't understand what it was." Levelling his gaze on Bodie, Doyle continued, "People come to me because they need to understand. Dreams can be confusing. If you misinterpret them, you can panic or think something is wrong with you, when actually it's simply your psyche trying to work things out. That's why I do this, to help..." He let his words trail off without further explanation.

Bodie seemed thoughtful for a moment, then asked, "What did you tell him?"

"I held his hand while he related the dream." Doyle's voice lowered. "I saw it clearly. He described it, and I saw it unfold. I didn't think it was a prophetic dream. Seemed more like a release dream, where he was letting go of some long-held belief or anger or sorrow. I told him to keep a dream log next to his bed."

"A what?"

"When you wake up in the middle of the night after a dream, or first thing in the morning, you write down as much of your dreams as you can remember. Details are important. Colours, numbers, smells, sounds. Mr Malone agreed to keep a diary. Next time he visited, he brought it with him."

Bodie seemed to perk up at this news. "Did you read it? Did he leave it here?"

Doyle smiled and Bodie's eyes flicked to his mouth for a second.

"He read parts of it to me," Doyle said. "Parts that pertained to the dreams he wanted to discuss. When he left, he took the book with him. Never actually got my hands on it."

Standing up, Bodie walked to the bay window. Light from the early morning sun caressed his dark hair and, though it was short, it looked soft to the touch. Doyle imagined what it would be like to have his arms around Bodie's neck, his fingers entwined in Bodie's hair, their lips pressed together.

Unaware of the direction Doyle's thoughts had taken, Bodie asked, "What kind of man is David Malone? Describe him."

Doyle allowed his attention to linger on Bodie for a moment longer. His gaze drifted across Bodie's broad shoulders, lean hips, long legs. Under those clothes, he'd bet anything that Bodie's body was perfect, well muscled, strong.

Doyle didn't fool himself for a minute. He knew part of his attraction was based on the fact that he hadn't had a steady lover since he'd walked away from Gavin Hughes twelve months ago. The presence of an interesting man was sending his desires into a dither.

"Mid-thirties," Doyle said, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. "A little shorter than me. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Attractive. Oh, and I believe him to be rich."

"What makes you think so?"

Doyle shrugged. "He dresses casually, but the clothes are expensive. Drives an Aston Martin."

"What colour? Year?"

"Silver. Don't know the year."

Rubbing his jaw, Bodie seemed to turn inward, then he looked over at Doyle. "Was there only one dream where he killed someone?"

"No. There were two others. But I didn't see anything in the newspaper about them."

Bodie walked toward Doyle and stood next to his chair. He could feel the heat from Bodie's body and worried it would be enough to once again create the images in his head of the two of them together. Bracing his mind against it, he shifted as far away from Bodie as he could.

"Does he have a regular appointment? Or does he just call you?"

"Calls me. But I never know when. He tends to pop in every couple of weeks."

"How long since the last visit?"

"Ten days. I expect he should call again this week." Sliding Bodie a wary look, Doyle asked, "Why do you want to know, since you don't believe in what I do?"

Bodie glanced around the room, apparently considering his question. Lifting one arm, he let it drop to his side in a gesture of obvious frustration.

"I don't know what to believe. I know a woman is dead. Know certain details of her murder match things you claim you picked up psychically from a man who told you about a dream he had." Bodie looked down at Doyle. "Just take a moment and think how that sounds to a logical person. If Malone did commit a murder and felt the need to tell somebody about it, pretending it happened in a dream would let him get it off his conscience without being accused."

"You still don't understand, do you. I _saw_ it. He dreamt it just the way-"

"Perhaps he used you, Doyle. Perhaps you're a kind, compassionate man and Malone knew it and used you."

Pushing himself to his feet, Doyle walked to the other side of the room, away from Bodie. He had to separate himself from Bodie's powerful presence. The man was too... alluring. Bodie disrupted his thoughts, invaded his senses. God forbid Bodie should touch him again.

"It was a dream, not reality." Doyle insisted. "Dreams and real events show up differently. I see them differently inside my head." He tapped a finger against his temple.

"I'm sorry, Doyle, but I don't believe in dream interpretation. If Malone came to you and related details of a murder, I have to assume he is somehow involved."

"I know what I saw, what I experienced. Just because you're a close-minded oaf doesn't mean I'm wrong. Truth is, you don't want to believe I can see other people's dreams. David Malone didn't say a thing about a purple flowered dress – I _saw_ it when I touched him!" Doyle growled in frustration.

The air crackled between them and Doyle fought to control his breathing. Damn, he hadn't been this mad since he'd walked in on Gavin that wretched day.

Bodie nodded a few times. "Give me something else. Another detail. Something that wasn't in the newspaper, something only the killer would know."

In frustration, Doyle turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. Calming his frayed nerves, he forced himself to remember the session with Malone – his words, and the images they'd conjured inside his head.

_I'd noticed her earlier, but she hadn't so much as looked my way. Everyone had gone. I crept up behind her. She was admiring the roses along the edge of the path near the bridge. It was just past dark and she'd wandered out of the light to get a closer look and smell a blossom. I did it then. Grabbing her from behind, my arm around her neck, choking her. She fought. But I was stronger. It hadn't taken much after that to squeeze the life out of her. When I was sure she was dead, I let her fall to the ground. She looked just like a rag doll some careless child had tossed aside. Then I shoved her under the bushes until only her feet were visible. Unable to resist, I crouched down and..._

"Her shoe," Doyle said quietly. "Malone took her shoe. A memento. A trophy. Killers do that sort of thing, don't they?"

He turned, seeking Bodie's eyes, wanting the acknowledgment, the recognition that he really _had_ seen, really _did_ know. Bodie was staring at him, but it wasn't with the look of appreciation and apology he deserved.

"It occurs to me," Bodie slowly said, "there is one other distinct possibility here."

Doyle assessed Bodie's words, while some emotion he couldn't define oozed into his stomach.

"And what would that be, Mr Bodie?"

Bodie locked eyes with him. "Let me put it to you this way. Do you want to confess now, or do we need to go to headquarters?"

***

Bodie watched as Doyle's jaw tightened. Doyle glared at him, anger and confusion plain to see in the depth of his eyes. Taking a step closer, Bodie invaded Doyle's personal space... and instantly regretted it.

He caught the scent of Doyle's aftershave. Citrus, spicy, warmed by his skin. It reminded Bodie of things he absolutely should not be thinking about.

"Let's have it, mate," Bodie said. "Do we stand here all day, or do you want to confess."

Bodie expected Doyle to back up or, perhaps, blurt out something incriminating. Instead, Doyle put his hands on his hips and scowled.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" Doyle snapped. "If I really were the killer, why would I draw attention to myself by telling you what I know?" Doyle's eyes flared like green fire. "Besides, I was having dinner with a friend the night of the murder."

"And what night was that?"

Doyle shifted his stance. "The tenth. We were-"

"Laura Sullivan was murdered on the eleventh."

"That was her name? The woman in the purple dress?"

"Did you know her?"

Doyle slowly shook his head. "No. You said she was killed on the eleventh? But the paper said-"

"The coroner set time of death between seven and ten o'clock on the night of the eleventh. Were you out having dinner that night too?"

"No." Doyle shrugged and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I was home."

"Alone?"

"Not that it's any of your business but, yes, bloody alone." Doyle glared.

Why that made him feel relieved, Bodie'd rather not think about at that moment.

"You didn't see anyone that night? Talk on the phone, perhaps?"

"No, didn't see or talk to anyone." Doyle walked over to the chair he'd sat in earlier and dropped into it. "You can't possibly think I had something to do with this."

"Doesn't matter whether I do or not. Only the evidence counts."

"I really do hope that David Malone didn't kill that woman. But it doesn't change what I felt, what I saw."

Bodie went to the round table, pulled out one of the chairs and gestured to it. "Sit here. I'm going to tell you a dream I had last night, and I want you to tell me what you see."

Standing, Doyle balled his fists at his sides. "You're going to test me? _Again_?"

"Yes." He waited for Doyle to take a seat. When he didn't, Bodie said, "What's it going to be? We going to do this séance here or at headquarters?"

" _Séance_?" Doyle's eyes flashed with anger and he shook his head. "I interpret dreams, not bloody communicate with the dead!"

"Whatever you call it, you're going to do it here, now – unless, of course, you'd prefer we do this in an interrogation room?"

***

 _Interrogation room._ Doyle's stomach tightened and he felt a little queasy. What if they locked him up? How would he survive it? He'd be in a small, crowded space – trapped. He would suffocate. Bodie didn't understand, never would, even if Doyle told him.

Silently he moved to the table where Bodie was already sitting, waiting.

"You going to lie to me again?" Doyle asked as he slid into the chair opposite Bodie.

"You tell me, sunshine." Bodie turned his hand over and, without smiling, wiggled his fingers.

Doyle gazed down at Bodie's hand, then took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he began the relaxation techniques he always used before a session. It helped clear his mind of his own thoughts so the images he got from the client would be pure, not influenced by whatever was going on inside his own head.

Reaching out, he clasped Bodie's hand.

This time when Doyle touched Bodie the erotic images he'd seen before did not form. He felt something inside his mind stir, but he blocked it, keeping his focus on Bodie, not on _them._

"Close your eyes," Doyle instructed. "When you're ready, tell me your dream."

Letting his lids drift closed, Doyle relaxed his shoulders and allowed the warmth of Bodie's hand to seep into his body. Bodie had good energy, strong, vital. Doyle worked to go deeper, and deeper.

Silence stretched between them. He heard the tick of the old clock on the fireplace mantel. High overhead, a plane droned by. Outside, a dog barked, children laughed.

"I dreamt I was on a ship," Bodie began. "Don't know where I was bound, but the ship was large. I got lost looking for my cabin. There were lots of people and I-"

"Stop," Doyle said. He opened his eyes to see Bodie watching him. "You're making it up."

Bodie's blue eyes widened innocently. "Am not."

Doyle struggled to pull his hand free from Bodie, but Bodie curled strong fingers around his and hung on.

"If you're going to test me," Doyle said as he tugged against the grip, "the least you can do is show me enough respect to be honest. Besides, how will you know I can do this if you don't tell me a real dream?"

Bodie's cheeks flushed a little, and Doyle figured it was probably a rare thing. Bodie didn't let go of him, though. And he found himself no longer resisting. They held hands across the small table like lovers at a pavement café. 

Looking into Doyle's eyes, Bodie finally spoke. "I wasn't trying to be dishonest. It's just... I don't dream."

The look of dejection that flitted across Bodie's face made something inside Doyle's heart give a little twitch.

"You do have dreams, Bodie," Doyle assured him. "Everyone does, no exceptions. For some reason, you don't remember them. I can show you how to keep a diary, and advise some methods you can use to recall your dreams. Dreams are symbolic insights into our minds, our lives and emotions. You should pay more attention to them."

"If you say so."

"When was the last time you had a dream you recall vividly?"

Bodie let go of his hand, and ran fingers through his hair. "Was young. About fourteen."

Some sort of odd sympathy washed through Doyle at a grown man not having any dreams he could remember, enjoy, cherish.

"Take my hand," Doyle said quietly. "Tell me about that dream."

Bodie sent him a strange look. Reaching across the table, he took Doyle's hand. His mouth turned up into a smart-arse grin. "Won't work, you know."

"We'll see. Now close your eyes and begin."

Doyle waited until Bodie had closed his eyes, before doing the same. A moment later, Bodie began to speak.

"Was with my brother. Robert. He's two years older." Bodie paused, as though he were debating whether or not to continue. Then, "We had gone to the pictures. The cinema was very dark. I didn't like the film and wanted to leave, but Robert kept watching it, ignoring me."

Behind Doyle's closed lids, the images began to assemble themselves. They were dull at first, fuzzy, but as Bodie spoke, they became clearer, stronger, more vivid in detail.

"When the film was over," Bodie said, "we started walking up the carpeted aisle and somehow got separated. Even though the cinema was empty, suddenly it was huge, like inside a large warehouse, and I couldn't find Robert. Finally, I spotted him way over on another aisle going out the door. I tried to follow, but two men stepped in front of me."

Inside Doyle's head, the image took shape.

_It's dark. The men are big and dressed in blue. They won't let you go with your brother._

"They said they were coppers," Bodie continued, his voice lower than before. "They handcuffed me, put me in the back seat of a car. One man sat on either side of me. Then we were driving by a house, the house we'd lived in when I was a young lad. But nobody was there. The curtains were drawn. I knew it was empty. I had this... longing to go inside. Was all I wanted, all I could think about. But one of the officers looked me in the eye, shook his head and said, 'You can never go there again'. As we passed, I turned so I could see the house through the back window of the car, and I knew he was right. I never could go there again..."

_And you wanted to – desperately. You'd lost something very important there, something you've never found since. When you woke up from that dream, you were crying, and you vowed nothing or no one would ever make you cry again._

Doyle slowly raised his eyelids to find Bodie looking straight at him. The cockiness he'd seen in Bodie's eyes earlier had been replaced by a deep yearning. Bodie was that young boy again, and he was lost.

Suddenly Bodie blinked, set his jaw, and it was business as usual once again.

"Would you like something to drink?" Doyle offered. "Water? Tea or cof-"

"Just get on with it." Bodie cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. The fingers that had gripped his so tightly as the dream was related went lax. Doyle slid his hand from Bodie's grasp.

Instantly, his mind went dark, as though he'd been shut in a closet. A few seconds later, reality began to ease back. Bodie's dream faded and Doyle was suddenly out of the man's head and back in his own.

Taking a deep breath, Doyle stretched his arms and adjusted his thoughts. "I want to explain something first. There are four types of dreams. Prophetic. Release. Wish. Problem-solving. It would help if you told me what was going on in your life at the time of your dream." Doyle already knew, at least a little, but Bodie needed to say it.

Easing back in his chair, Bodie eyed him with scepticism. "You're the expert. You tell me."

Letting Bodie's attitude pass, Doyle said, "I saw you. Your hair a tad lighter than it is now. Robert's hair is blond."

Bodie's gaze sharpened. "Go on."

"I think the film you were watching was your life at that time. Your parents, perhaps. This wasn't a prophetic dream, nor was it problem-solving. I don't get the sense you dealt with something and then let it go. So that leaves a wish dream."

"What was I wishing for?"

Gently, Doyle said, "You know."

"Perhaps. But if you guess right-"

"I don't guess," Doyle said firmly. "I _see._ The house could have been you. Houses often represent the dreamer. Each room has a certain significance. But in this case, since it was a particular house, one in which you lived, I'd say you longed to go back to a time when your family was together. When you were a little lad and taken care of. Food always on the table. Trees to climb. Your brother to play with. As a teenager, when you dreamt this dream, you felt pressure to grow up quickly. However, you missed your family, wanted those sweet simpler times back again."

Bodie stared at Doyle, a look of astonishment gracing his beautiful face.

"How did you know about my parents' divorce? About Robert?"

"From your dream. Your brother went with one parent. You with the other. You knew those old days would never return again. Your subconscious was trying to deal with that, which is why it gave you the dream."

Bodie's brows lowered. "I don't believe you got that from holding my hand."

"Believe what you want, Bodie."

Doyle knew Bodie wasn't going to accept any of this now, not in his present mood. It happened that way sometimes.

Pushing himself to his feet, Doyle said, "I think I passed your test. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Seeing the melancholy look in Bodie's eyes, Doyle had the sudden urge to hug the stubborn man. He wanted to hold him. Wanted to tell him it was okay, stroke his brow, ease his pain. But Bodie wasn't that little boy anymore. Besides, Doyle had a feeling that Bodie would never accept it, so instead Doyle showed him to the door.

"You have my number," Bodie said from the bottom of the front steps. "When you hear from Malone again, call me."

Doyle watched him walk away and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bodie'd think about their session and eventually convince himself that Doyle had simply guessed at everything. Sceptics had a way of talking themselves out of whatever they chose not to believe. Even when the evidence rose up to smack them on the top of the head. Bodie's next conclusion would be that Doyle was a total fraud.

Closing the front door, he leant against it, wondering just why he cared what William Bodie thought of him. In all likelihood, Doyle would never see him again. That was good, both from an official and a personal point of view.

As he entered his office, his phone began to ring. Hurrying over to his desk he picked up the receiver.

"Hello," Doyle greeted.

"Mr Doyle, it's David Malone." At the sound of the man's voice, Doyle's heart began to race. "I need to see you right away."

***

Just a few streets away from Raymond Doyle's house, bright lights lit up the interior of the Black Lion, rousting any lingering shadows from the corners of the pub, but not from Bodie's mood. He needed time to let his insides settle down – his head, his gut, his nerves.

The meeting he'd had with Doyle had left him with more questions than answers. Bodie's instincts told him that Doyle wasn't involved in Laura Sullivan's murder. His instincts told him a lot of things about Ray Doyle. 

The aroma of stew and freshly baked bread teased Bodie's nose and his stomach growled. At this time of day, the place was rather quiet. Only a few patrons occupied the restaurant, some sipping tea, others reading the day's paper. An elderly couple sat a few tables away from Bodie, deeply engrossed in a discussion as to what country they should travel to for a holiday. They sat on the same side of the table, chairs scooted close together. The woman's grey head lay on her husband's shoulder as he lazily leafed through travel brochures. The man said something to her and she smiled lovingly and patted his arm.

Watching them, Bodie felt a pang of envy for the lifetime of shared experiences they had created together. Could that sort of thing happen for him? Or was it too much to wish for? Then again, a man made his own luck in this world.

A young waitress in a too-tight pink top sauntered up to Bodie's table and seemed disappointed when all he asked for was scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and tea.

_Sorry, love. You're not my type._

No, she wasn't Bodie's type at all. Doyle on the other hand... now Doyle was very much Bodie's type.

Images of the stroppy bastard flashed across Bodie's mind and he felt his groin tighten in pleasure. The green eyes, that smile, those sensual lips, curly hair, lean body, even the slightly deformed cheekbone all appealed to Bodie. He got turned on every time he laid eyes on Doyle. For a few short minutes he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have Doyle in his bed, aroused, moaning in pleasure as Bodie ran his hands all over that gloriously naked body... 

The sound of the waitress placing his food on the table brought Bodie out of his thoughts. It wouldn't do him any good to keep thinking of being together like that. What was the point? They didn't get along, didn't trust one another. And, hell, Doyle was a suspect in a murder investigation. It'd be in Bodie's best interest to stay as far away from Ray Doyle as possible.

***

It was early evening when Bodie arrived at his flat. He set the locks, removed his jacket and holster then went to fetch himself a beer. Walking into the lounge, a picture caught his eye. It was of him and his brother, young, perhaps eight and ten years of age. They were standing side-by-side, holding a favourite toy and grinning at the camera. Happy times.

A sudden urge to call Robert crept over Bodie, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to initiate what was certain to be a stressful interaction with his straight-laced, sour-faced older brother.

Even so, he had to contact him sooner or later. Working things out with Robert was a promise he had made to his mother before she died a year ago. Only problem was, his brother didn't seem inclined in the least to reciprocate.

Crossing the room to his desk, Bodie sat in the chair and picked up the phone. Before he dialled the number, he waited another minute. One had to be prepared before an encounter with Robert. The man had the tact of a tornado – touching down for a moment, wreaking havoc, then flying off in another direction, a trail of broken bodies strewn about the ground.

Biting back a curse, Bodie waited for his brother to answer

"Yeah?" Robert said, by way of hello.

"Nice hearing your voice, too, big brother," Bodie drawled. "Why so bad tempered? Didn't interrupt anything, did I?

"If that had been the case, I wouldn't have answered the damn phone," Robert scoffed. "I'm a busy man, Will. What do you want?"

Ignoring the use of his first name, Bodie continued. "Nothing special," he lied. "I found myself longing for the sound of your voice, so-"

"Bullshit. You wouldn't give me the time of day unless you wanted something. Somebody die? You need money?"

Bodie let a wry smile curve his lips. "Would you give it to me if I did?"

Silence.

"Thought so." Bodie laughed. "Same old Robert. I think it's nice how well we know each other."

"At the cost of repeating myself," Robert said, "bullshit. I don't know you, you don't know me. Let's just keep it that way, shall we?"

Bodie felt his anger well up all over again. Robert could be a hard-nosed tetchy bastard.

"Bloody hell, Robert," Bodie growled. "Don't know what I did to make you angry this time. We made a promise to mum that we'd try to get along better, but I'm doing all the damn work while you just make boorish remarks. What the hell's your problem?"

There was silence on the other end of the line, then, "You done?"

Bodie bit back a curse and remained silent.

"Listen, Will, I've spent the last twenty years taking care of Mum. Doing two jobs to make sure there was food on the table and a roof over our heads, while you went off with Dad without a care in the world."

"Is that what you think? That I abandoned you just because Dad..."

Bodie let his voice trail off. Going there now would only cause more grief, open wounds he was trying to heal. It was obvious Robert's hatred for their father included Bodie – maybe it always would.

When Robert didn't respond, Bodie released a long breath. "Look, I called you for a reason."

Silence for another moment. "Make it quick," Robert said, his voice slightly less harsh than it had been.

"Remember the house in Chessington?" Bodie asked. "The one we grew up in? It was white brick and Mum painted the front door red. We had a puppy. Pouncer. We named him that because he jumped on everything."

Long seconds ticked by while Bodie waited for his brother to answer. "Yeah. I remember."

"Do you... ever think about that house?

For a heartbeat Robert said nothing, then murmured, "Not really." Robert cleared his throat. "Is this the reason you called? To chit-chat about old times? If it is, you're wasting your time, and mine."

 _Right. Back to business,_ Bodie thought. _Much safer territory._

"No. It's not." He leant back in his chair. "I have this unusual... case. Thought perhaps you might have a few insights."

"All right. Let's hear it."

Bodie explained about the body found in St. James's Park, the purple dress, the dream interpreter. "So," he said, finishing up. "Ever deal with anything like this in your days as a copper?"

He waited for Robert to accuse him of being a complete idiot for considering the possibility that Doyle had actually seen the murder through the mind of his client. 

"Yeah," Robert said. "We had a few cases where we used a psychic."

It took Bodie a moment to realise what his brother had said, and another to form some kind of cogent response.

"Really? What happened?"

"We only approached psychics as a last resort, unless they came to us first. But I'd say they had close to an eighty percent success rate. I've never used one since I became a private investigator, though."

"You think Doyle could be genuine?"

Robert gave a sharp laugh. "What does your gut tell you?"

Just what _did_ his gut tell him? That he was attracted to Ray Doyle. Definitely. But that didn't count. That the details Doyle had given him matched the murder. That Doyle's guesswork regarding Bodie's own boyhood dream had been too close for comfort. "I'm willing to suspend belief long enough to give him a shot, I suppose."

"Doyle could be the killer, or an accessory," Robert said.

"I know that."

"But you don't think he is."

"No."

"I can run a background check on Doyle, if you want."

"Would appreciate it. Already done one meself but, using your connections, I'd like to see if you come up with something different."

Robert's private investigative firm had state-of-the-art everything, and the manpower to back it up.

"All right," Robert said. "I'll get back to you."

"Thanks. You have my number," Bodie replied before hanging up.

***

As soon as Doyle had rung off with David Malone, he'd called the number Bodie had given him. Bodie had not been available, so he'd left an urgent message with the woman who had answered the phone. She promised to get the message to Bodie right away, and Doyle hoped she had been successful, that Bodie would arrive soon.

At the sound of the doorbell, he hurried to the front of the house. Dread clenched his stomach into a tight knot at the same time as his fingers curled around the doorknob.

"Mr Malone," Doyle said through a strained smile as the door creaked on its hinges.

Malone stood on the front steps, facing Doyle, body tense, fists balled at his sides. Through brown eyes rimmed with red, Malone watched him. His mouth, a straight line across his haggard face, was nearly lost under the growth of beard stubble.

The man appeared anxious and dishevelled. Instead of the neat clothing Malone usually wore, he was in torn jeans and a black sweatshirt, looking like he'd spent the night curled up in an alley. Lowering his head, Malone neither smiled nor acknowledged Doyle's existence as he brushed past Doyle to head straight for the office.

Doyle peered outside, searching the area, hoping against hope that he'd see Bodie, but the street was empty, silent.

 _Buy some time,_ Doyle told himself. _Do everything slowly. Buy enough time for Bodie to get here._

His heart thudded heavily in his chest as he walked toward his office. Slipping inside, Doyle began to close the door, then decided to leave it slightly ajar... just in case. Malone sat at the round table, hand outstretched, foot tapping in nervous jerks.

"Would you like something to drink?" Doyle offered. Malone looked up at him and shook his head. Taking the opposite seat, Doyle asked, "Are you all right? I can’t help but notice you seem very anxious."

Malone's back hunched over, his shoulders drooping. He nodded, and wiped his jaw with his hand. His fingers trembled.

"Mr Malone, please tell me what's the matter."

"Dream," Malone said at last. "Bad. Uh, I, uh..." He swallowed, bit his lower lip. "Can we start, please?"

Doyle reached for the man's hand, however his attention was on the street outside, listening for any signs of Bodie. No luck. Only silence greeted his ears. He was on his own with this possible homicidal maniac.

He laid his hand palm up on the table, and Malone set his into it. The skin felt damp and Doyle felt the urge to yank his hand away.

"Close your eyes," Doyle instructed, doing the same. "Tell me your-"

"I killed someone," Malone rushed. "Again. I... it happened, I mean, the dream happened four nights ago."

Behind his closed lids, Doyle began to see shapes, vague outlines, blurry silhouettes, but no solid forms.

"Go on." Doyle's voice sounded amazingly calm even though he was nervous as hell.

"I wrote it down, in the dream log, like you said. The dream had faded a lot by the time I was awake enough to make notes, but the more I wrote, the more I remembered." Malone sucked in a raspy breath. "In the dream, I was walking along a city street. Don't know which one."

"All right, I see it," Doyle said quietly. Buildings formed in his head. Cars parked bumper-to-bumper. He felt Malone's hand clench into a ball and Doyle curled his fingers around it to try to ease the trembling.

"An old man appeared from around a corner," Malone said, "and I realised he'd come out of an alley. For some reason, I was afraid of him. He asked me for money, but I didn't have any. He went back into the alley and I followed him. It was dark. I couldn't see anything. Then I heard him screaming and when I looked down I had this bottle in my hand. I don't know how it got there." Malone paused, letting out a shaky breath. "I hit him!" he cried. "I hit him, and he fell to the ground without a sound. He lay there, staring up at me, knowing as he was dying what I'd done, that I'd taken his life. I stood there and realised he knew me, knew who I was. He called my name..." A sob escaped from Malone and he lowered his head.

The alley assembled itself in Doyle's head. Dark shapes, two men, one standing, one lying on his back on the ground, arms outstretched. A moan, then a bottle smashed to the pavement, shattering into pieces.

"What happened after that?" Doyle asked, his voice unsteady.

"I- I let the bottle fall from my hands. It broke, and I stared down at the pieces like they were a beautiful green mosaic, all glittering and fitting together in some crazy design." Malone jerked his trembling hand free of Doyle's.

"Mr Malone," Doyle said softly, "perhaps you need to seek the help of a therapist. I can see how your dreams have increasingly distressed you. While I can help interpret them, I can't go beyond-"

"It wasn't a dream!" Malone shouted, jumping up from his chair. "I mean, it was, but then there was the blood. So much blood!"

Doyle stood and stepped back from the table, shifting a little away from Malone and his wild eyes and shaking hands.

"I didn't see any blood," Doyle said.

"When I woke up," Malone choked, his voice thick with panic. "My hands were covered with blood. I don't know how it got there! Am I going crazy? I am, aren't I?" He wrapped his arms around himself and began to rock back and forth.

"Why don't you sit down," Doyle suggested. His heart was racing, pounding in his ears. _Where the hell are you, Bodie?_ He made sure to keep the table between them while he thought of ways to calm Malone. "I can make you tea and we can talk-"

"You know about me, don't you?" Malone accused, glaring at Doyle. "You know what I did!"

"No." Doyle shook his head. "I know what you _dreamt._ "

Suddenly, Malone lunged across the table at him, and Doyle reached behind him for anything he could grab. His fingers wrapped around a book, but before he could slam it into the side of Malone's head, the man's fingers were at his throat.

"Listen to me," Malone begged through clenched teeth. "Please, just _listen_..."

Doyle tried to call out for help, but his air flow was cut off. He began to struggle, to fight back. When that didn't work, Doyle let his body go slack, dropping to the floor. Shifting his weight, he threw them both off balance enough that he broke free of Malone's hold.

As Doyle went down his head slammed into a shelf on the bookcase, sending a burst of light behind his closed lids. Amid the sparkling display, an image formed of Bodie arriving too late to save his life.

***

"I... 'm all right."

Someone was speaking, but Doyle couldn't make out who it was. With his eyes half closed, he tried to concentrate on the voice. Then he felt his lips move.

"I'll be okay," Doyle whispered, knowing now it was he who spoke. 

Slowly, he lifted his head and opened his eyes to see his own image reflected back at him in the mirror. Gradually he became aware of his fingers, which were curled around the edges of the bathroom sink. He blinked a few times then two people floated into focus behind him in the reverse bathroom. To his right, a lean, short man with worried hazel eyes held a cloth to the back of his head.

"Oh. Hallo, Collin," Doyle murmured to his good mate. "Don't worry... 'm fine."

To Doyle's left stood a tall, very good-looking man in a leather jacket. The man had his arm around Doyle's waist and seemed to be holding him up. He'd pulled Doyle into his side, and Doyle took a moment to gaze into the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. 

"Hallo." Doyle smiled sleepily.

Those blue eyes showed surprise for a moment, then the man gently said, "Hi there."

"I'm okay," Doyle said to him, and he got a smirk in return.

Mmmm. That mouth. Sensual curves and edges. Definitely kissable. Doyle smiled at him again. He reached for the man's face, about to ask him his name, yet when his fingers made contact with skin, a dark image pushed its way into his brain. Memories began snapping into place.

He remembered now. It was _him._

"Bodie." Doyle acknowledged and pulled his hand away.

"Quite a bump on the noggin you got there, sunshine," Bodie said, brushing a knuckle across Doyle's cheek.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Collin asked, his voice shaky. "How many fingers am I holding up? What's your favourite colour? Who's your favourite actor?"

"Christ, Collin, I'm not a bleeding Russian spy!" Doyle's head throbbed and he lifted his right hand to rub at his temple. "Two fingers. Green." Aware of Bodie's hand wrapped around his side, he said, "You can let go of me now, Bodie."

"Okay. As soon as you tell me who your favourite actor is."

In the mirror, their eyes met for a moment, then Doyle glanced away. "Sir Laurence Olivier." Doyle glared. "Satisfied?"

"Quite," Bodie replied with a smirk.

"Did you catch him?" Doyle asked.

"Malone? No."

"Shit. Shame." He straightened up and looked around. "Why am I in the loo?"

Collin spoke up. "I came over to see if you wanted to get a bite to eat. When I arrived, the front door was open. I found you stumbling down the hall, muttering over and over that you were okay."

"Perhaps you thought you were going to be sick and tried to make it to the toilet," Bodie offered.

"Well, I'm fine now, so you can let go of me." Doyle scowled at Bodie.

Bodie tilted his head and attempted to catch Doyle's gaze in the mirror. "Did Malone assault you?"

Doyle shook his head, but had to grab the sink's edge when the room spun. "Not really. He grabbed my throat, I jerked away, lost my balance and banged my head on something. Don't remember anything after that."

Raising his hand, Bodie gently examined Doyle's throat. Bodie's fingers were slightly rough and warm, causing Doyle's skin to tingle where they touched him.

"Let's get you seated somewhere comfortable. I still need to get a complete statement-" The sound of a siren blasting up the street cut Bodie off. "Ambulance," he said when Doyle turned his head to look at him.

"Don't need a bloody ambulance," Doyle grumbled.

Bodie shot a quick glance at Collin and asked, "Is he always this thick-headed and quarrelsome?"

Collin cocked his head as he seemed to consider the question. His gaze slid to Doyle, then to Bodie, then back to Doyle again. A gleam suddenly sparked to life in his eyes. "Oh yeah," he purred. "But something tells me he may have met his match."

***

Arthur Wadsworth hurried into his bedroom. It wasn't until the door was closed and locked behind him that he released a long, shaky breath. 

_Safe now. Safe at last._

Somehow he'd managed to make it to his room without encountering his younger brother, the housekeeper, or any of the maids. The drive from London to his estate in Totteridge had been a nightmare, but he'd stayed focused, obeyed all traffic laws and did his best not to attract attention. He'd turned onto the drive leading up to his house and parked in the four-car garage next to his brother's black Mercedes, praying that he'd make it through the house without running into anyone.

With his back against his bedroom door, Arthur raised his shaky hands out in front of him. No blood. A sob of relief built up in his throat, but he didn't allow it to escape.

God, had he hurt Doyle? After Doyle had fallen and whacked his head, Arthur had wanted to stop to see if Doyle was all right, but panic had set in and he'd run away instead.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Arthur wondered how badly Doyle was hurt. What if Doyle were dead? It would all be Arthur's fault. His fault for scaring Doyle. His fault for leaving the man like he'd done.

He hadn't meant to harm Doyle. Truly he hadn't. However, his fingers remembered the warmth of Doyle's skin, the tense muscles of Doyle's neck as he'd begun to close his grip around the soft throat and windpipe. He hadn't wanted to choke him, but the way Doyle had looked at him, it was as though Doyle _knew._

Bloody hell! Of course Doyle knew! He'd been the one to tell Doyle, hadn't he? But that was when he'd thought they were only some stupid dreams.

Arthur slammed his fists into his head, clutching and tugging violently at his hair until the pain penetrated his skull. He let out a sharp sob. Damn it! If only he could remember!

Tears streaked down his cheeks and he let his head fall back against the door with a dull thud. His eyes burned, the muscles in his arms and legs trembled and felt weak. Perhaps Doyle was right. Perhaps he should see a doctor, a psychiatrist, check himself in somewhere. Perhaps then he'd be able to figure out what was happening to him. Why he was losing it. Why he'd turned into some sort of horrible monster. If they locked him away, people would be safe again.

Ever since his father's death a year ago, the burden of the Wadsworth wealth and holdings rested on Arthur's shoulders. Four companies, and their subsidiaries, thousands of employees, money and lives were in his hands. He had to be successful for _them._ To keep it all going just the way his father would have wanted. To keep the dream alive and thriving.

He couldn't let it fail. Couldn't let his father down.

Over the years, his father had tried to convince Arthur to join the business. However, unlike his charismatic younger brother, Terence, who seemed to crave being in the corporate world, Arthur hadn't wanted any part of it. He'd much rather spend money, play around with his friends, travel, or bed as many women as he could. 

The family business just hadn't needed _him._

Yet, after his father had died, Arthur had needed _it._

At first, that little epiphany had stunned and terrified him. It surprised him that once he started sinking his teeth into the job, he found it oddly satisfying.

Although he knew Terence was probably far more capable of taking over the reins, Arthur had decided to learn all he could and do the job his father had entrusted to him. For the past eleven months he'd worked long, hard days, putting his all into the business and taking nothing for himself. Perhaps he'd overdone it. Perhaps it had all become too much. Perhaps it was simply killing him.

Or turning him into a killer.

Wearily, Arthur moved to the bed, letting his body drop onto the mattress face down. It had been three months since the dreams – the nightmares – had begun. Burning their impression into his brain and leaving him exhausted. Yet as tired as he was, he couldn't sleep. 

Rolling over, he glanced at the notebook sitting on the bedside table. His dream log. Sitting abruptly, he snatched it up and flipped it open. His eyes drifted over his own handwriting on the pages. Innocent, mostly illegible words, scribbled when he'd only been half-awake. He'd jotted down phrases to help him recall the dreams so he could tell Doyle. And in return, Doyle could help him solve the bloody riddles his mind had conjured up.

Tossing aside the journal in revulsion, Arthur rubbed at his eyes. Good Lord, he needed rest. Perhaps he should find Terence and ask him if he had anything he could take. Hell, his brother's medicine cabinet looked like a mini-chemist. Surely there must be something in there that would knock him out. Then, perhaps, he would sleep the way he used to, before his father died – before his world shifted and the nightmares came, leaving his hands, his face and clothes covered with blood.

***

"I don't care what you say, Bodie." Doyle stared at Bodie, jaw set, hands planted firmly on his hips. "I will not press charges."

Bodie glared right back at him, hands on his own hips, his stance wide, rigid. 

Doyle had to give the man credit – Bodie's body language and stare were intimidating and intense, or would have been if Bodie'd tried it on anyone else but Doyle.

"I was wrong about Malone," Doyle explained. "I don't want to make the situation worse by pressing charges."

Doyle braced himself, waiting for Bodie to explode, but it never came. Instead all he got was a smile. A very beautiful, heart stopping smile. Bodie's magnetism wrapped around Doyle and, against his will, it drew him in.

"Whether you press charges or not," Bodie said, giving Doyle a long look, "I'm going to dust."

"Terrific," Doyle drawled. "When you're finished, do you mind going into the bedroom next? Could use a good clean in there."

"I mean, you daft bastard, dust for fingerprints." Bodie smirked, blue eyes dancing with laughter. After a moment, he asked seriously, "Malone touch anything in here – besides your neck, I mean?"

Doyle's fingers drifted up to his throat, remembering Malone's hands as they tightened until he could barely breathe. While the encounter had given him a bit of a fright at the time, since then he'd been thinking about it and had come to a few conclusions.

Closing his eyes briefly, Doyle thought of Malone and caught a flash of an image, an emotion, and then something else... 

Doyle glanced over at Bodie and met his gaze. "Mr Malone didn't come here to hurt me. He was confused, desperate even, but murder was not on his mind. I'm sure of it, Bodie."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bodie replied, "You can't know what he intended."

"Yes, I can." Sensing that Bodie was about to disagree, Doyle hurriedly added, "I saw his dream, remember."

Bodie released a long breath through his nose and Doyle swore he could hear the man's frustration rushing out in that breathy sound. "Okay, sunshine, enlighten me. What was Malone's dream about this time?"

"Said that a few nights ago he dreamt of killing a homeless man in an alley. That he was holding a broken bottle, and blood was dripping from his hand." Doyle paused for a second, remembering Malone's appearance. "His clothing was a mess, and he was highly agitated. I got the impression it had been a while since he'd slept."

Bodie walked to the front window, pulling the curtain aside and gazing out into the street. "Dreaming of murder isn't a crime. Assault is." He removed his hand, letting the curtain fall back into place and turned to Doyle. "If I find-"

"I don't care what you find," Doyle growled, his own frustration leaking out. "Malone didn't intend to harm me. I believe his actions shocked him as much as they did me. If I hadn't pulled away from him, I wouldn't have knocked my head."

In what was becoming a familiar gesture, Bodie crossed his arms over his chest again and scowled at Doyle. "That's one of daftest things I've ever heard. Malone had his fingers wrapped around your throat. He acted with aggression, also known as assault. You have absolutely no way of knowing what his intentions-"

"Yes, I do!" Doyle snapped. "When he grabbed me, for just a moment I saw inside his mind. He doesn't understand what's happening to him. He's terrified-"

" _Inside his mind_?" Bodie barked, his eyes narrowing. "You saw inside his _mind_? Terrific! Didn't happen to catch his real name and address while you were poking around in there, did you?"

"Christ! I'm not an idiot, Bodie!" Doyle felt hot fury surge through his body. "If I thought I was in danger, I'd bloody well press charges. But I'm not." Unable to stand still, Doyle began to pace. "Okay, I admit I was frightened, but then... when I grabbed Malone, I got an image... the dreams he told me about... something's not right. I don't understand it yet, but I'm not afraid of him. Not anymore." He stopped and looked at Bodie. "He needs help."

Bodie raised his hands in obvious irritation. "Fine," he sighed. "Do what you want. Can't make you press charges, anyway. But, if you recall, _you_ came to _me_ to discuss whether or not this man killed Laura Sullivan. Now Malone's attacked you. He may or may not have something to do with Sullivan's death, but he is violent and he is hiding something. I want to talk to him."

Ignoring Bodie's outburst, Doyle asked, "How long will it take to dust for the prints?" He looked at his watch. "I have a client coming in two hours."

"About an hour, then I'll be out of your hair." Bodie paused for a second, then added quietly that Doyle almost didn't hear him, "Hopefully for good."

***

With the daily newspaper tucked under his arm, Doyle exited the small coffee shop. People were out and about in droves today, bustling up and down the wide pavement, taking advantage of the beautiful day. Leaning back against the brick wall, he briefly closed his eyes, tilted his face upwards and took pleasure in the feel of the warm sun on his face. Stepping away from the building, he headed down the street. He wasn't in any hurry to get home, so he took his time gazing in shop windows as he walked along. 

His mind began to drift and before long thoughts of Bodie filled his head. Bodie's face, boyishly handsome, the gleaming blue of his eyes that were at once humorous and serious, that sensuous mouth, the pleasant sound of his voice. It had been a long time since Doyle'd found himself daydreaming about a man. And he found it to be a rather enjoyable feeling, even though the man, at times, could be exasperating.

The light at the street corner changed to red and Doyle stopped at the kerb, watching the cars begin to move in front of him. A bus was lumbering along, making its way toward the road junction. As it drew closer, Doyle's senses heightened, and he became aware of the crowd around him, shifting, subtly moving him forward, nearer to the kerb.

Suddenly, Doyle felt a hand press against his back between his shoulder blades. An image instantly burst inside his brain. Before he had a chance to analyse it, he felt himself being shoved hard. He landed on his hands and knees in the middle of the street, directly in the path of the oncoming bus.

***

Slowly, Doyle lifted his lids and stared into his rescuer's face. The man was sort of blurry, fading in and out a little, but there was no mistaking those glittering blue eyes.

Blinking up at Bodie, Doyle wasn't exactly sure what had happened. One moment he'd been shoved, had fallen onto the tarmac in front of the oncoming bus, the next he'd found himself being yanked out of harm's way and rolling across the pavement with a man landing on top of him.

After taking a calming breath, Doyle asked, "Where did you come from?"

Bodie answered seriously, "Well, when two people love each other very much-"

"No, you great lummox," Doyle growled around his laughter. "Got that speech from me mum when I was ten. Were you following me?"

"Sort of." Bodie got to his feet and held out his hand.

"Sort of?" Suddenly aware of the crowd surrounding them, staring, Doyle lifted his arm and slid his hand into Bodie's. As he was easily pulled to his feet, Doyle couldn't help but feel the strength in Bodie, in his muscular body. Once Doyle was upright, he stumbled slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him. He felt Bodie's arm slip around his waist, and Doyle realised he liked the feeling – a lot.

"Okay, Ray?" Bodie asked, his eyes filled with concern.

"Just a tad dizzy."

"Come on. Let's sit down." Bodie ushered Doyle to the bus stop bench. Sitting down next to him, Bodie eyed Doyle worriedly. "Did you bump your head?"

"No. Only scraped me hands a bit."

"Let me see." Doyle flipped his hands over, palms up. Leaning forward, Bodie took Doyle's hands in his, inspecting them thoroughly. Bodie reached into the side pocket of his leather jacket, retrieved a handkerchief and proceeded to gently clean the dirt and blood from Doyle's palms. Once finished he eyed Doyle and asked, "Better?"

"Yeah. I'll live."

"Good." Bodie smirked, and gently patted Doyle on his shoulder.

After checking his hands one last time, Doyle turned to Bodie. "Did you see who pushed me?"

"Eh?" Bodie frowned.

"Did you see-"

Bodie's hand shot up, cutting Doyle off. "You're saying someone pushed you in front of that bus?"

Doyle nodded.

"Stay right here," Bodie said and stood up. "I need to question this crowd." Doyle felt Bodie squeeze his arm briefly, then he let Doyle go while he went to talk with some of the witnesses.

In the end, nobody had seen Doyle being pushed into the street, although those who had noticed anything at all did wonder why Doyle had suddenly leapt from the pavement. 

With a groan, he got to his feet. An hour had passed since the incident, and every muscle in his body had begun to stiffen. His trousers were torn, knees were bruised and his hands were scraped raw. He was not looking forward to the twenty minute walk back to his house.

As though reading his thoughts, Bodie appeared by his side. "I'll drive you home."

Doyle smiled, hoping the gratitude showed in his eyes.

"Car's this way." Bodie took Doyle by the elbow, leading him down the street.

Once they were inside Bodie's Capri, Doyle glanced over at him and asked, "Why were you following me?"

"Didn't really mean to. Was just coming out of the grocer's when I happened to spot you at the road junction."

"You saw me on the corner, but didn't see who pushed me?"

"Sorry. There were too many people about." Bodie glanced over his right shoulder before pulling out into traffic. "Besides, how was I to know what was going to happen? I'm not the one who's psychic, am I."

Doyle glared at Bodie for a second then looked away. Over the years, he'd dealt with other law enforcement officers who'd treated his abilities with the same casual disrespect, so Doyle really wasn't surprised by Bodie's attitude. No, not surprised, but a little disappointed. Something deep inside Doyle wanted Bodie to be better than that.

"Look, Bodie. My psychic abilities are somewhat... restricted. I'm tactile and don't get much unless I touch a person or object. Perhaps you could try keeping an open mind."

"I've had experience with psychics before," Bodie said, throwing a glance Doyle's way. "Which is why I can say with some authority that it's a bunch of rubbish."

Turning away, Doyle gazed out the side passenger window, watching the scenery as it dashed by. Not entirely sure why he was about to share this information with Bodie, Doyle found himself saying, "I'll have you know that I did get something as I was being pushed, but it flashed so fast, there was no time for it to register in my mind."

" _Got_ something?"

"An image, an _impression._ But then I felt the hand shoving me, and the next thing I knew I was out in the road."

Bodie slid Doyle a sceptical look. "Anything you say, sunshine."

Taking a deep breath, Doyle reined in his burgeoning anger. Not in the mood for another argument, he kept his mouth shut for the remainder of the drive.

Pulling up in front of Doyle's house, Bodie put the car in neutral and set the handbrake. However, instead of looking over at him, Bodie's eyes stayed focused on the distant horizon.

Without a word, Doyle got out of the car. Before he could shut the door, Bodie asked, "Sure you're okay?"

"You keep asking me that. I'm fine. Thanks for the lift." Slamming the door shut, Doyle moved away from the car. He had only taken a couple of steps when Bodie was calling his name. Turning around, he saw that Bodie was standing outside of the vehicle, open hands casually placed on the roof.

"What are you doing for the rest of the week? Nothing too strenuous, I hope."

"No," Doyle replied, wondering where Bodie was going with this. "I teach an adult class once a week. Don't think that'll put any kind of strain on me scraped hands and knees."

"Adult class? When?"

Doyle frowned. Why, all of sudden, was Bodie so interested in what he was going to be doing?

"Wednesday, at the local community centre. It's a Dream Interpretation class. All the information is up on the bulletin board at the centre, just in case you want to set your staid, inflexible, narrow-minded, sceptical standards aside and join us."

Bodie smirked. "Will keep that in mind. If you hear from Malone again, let me know."

Doyle released an exasperated sigh. "Yes, Bodie."

"Stay safe."

Shifting his gaze up, he met Bodie's across the top of the car's roof. "I will."

Bodie lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Doyle. "Don't do anything foolish."

"No, Bodie," Doyle replied, rolling his eyes.

With a nod, Bodie slid in behind the steering wheel, put the car in gear, and took off down the street. Doyle watched him go, and realised he felt both exhilarated and let down at the same time.

Okay, so Bodie was handsome and intriguing, and made for some hot, sexy fantasy fodder, but that was as far as it was ever going to go. They were just too different and stubborn to be able to build any type of a relationship.

***

Doyle sat at a small table in his local pub watching his best mate make his way through the crowd toward him. 

"Place is crowded tonight," Collin said, handing Doyle his beer.

"Cheers, mate." Doyle lifted his glass and took a long, slow swallow of the bitter liquid.

Collin smiled, tilted his glass in salute and took a sip of his drink. "Bodie is very attractive, don't you think?"

"Is he?" Doyle feigned disinterest by looking into his beer.

"Ray-"

"Okay, fine." Releasing a sigh, he said, "Would be lying if I said I hadn't noticed." Doyle took another sip from his glass. "Has your sister set a date for the wedding?"

"It's in August, but you already know that. Don't change the subject. I think he likes you." Collin paused for a second. "He's the first man you've shown any interest in since Gavin."

"Eh?" Doyle abandoned his beer to stare at his friend. "What are you talking about? I haven't shown any interest in Bodie. I barely know him. It's been strictly official. Besides, he's incredibly arrogant and stubborn, not to mention he's a non-believer. Could never become involved with a man who doesn't understand..." He let the words trickle off when he saw Collin's wide grin and realised he was protesting way too much.

"It's quite all right to like him, Ray." Collin winked at him. "He'd be a very lucky man to win your heart."

For some ungodly reason, an image of Bodie pressed itself into Doyle's head, and even though he tried several times to push it into oblivion, it held on and stayed right where it was.

***

Bodie sat outside on the terrace at the little café he frequented. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head up and let the warmth of the sun loosen his tense muscles. He let his mind wander and, as it always seemed to do recently, it brought up images of Doyle.

His lids flickered open and his attention fell to the file beneath his hand. Running an index finger over it, he contemplated what he'd just read.

Robert had been thorough, and Bodie would pay a high price because of it. His brother had never been one to do something for nothing. He knew Robert would call in the favour when it was least convenient. Fair enough, he supposed. With the information that Bodie had gathered, along with what his brother had dug up, Bodie now knew everything there was to know about Raymond Doyle – more than Doyle probably knew himself.

But it wasn't enough.

Today was Wednesday...

After a quick check of his watch, Bodie got to his feet. Picking up the file, he tossed a couple of quid on the table and headed for his car.

The Community Centre car park was nearly full by the time he arrived. He wasn't sure what room Doyle's class was in, but he figured he could just follow all the vacant-eyed nutcases and they'd lead him right to Doyle.

Pushing open the main front door, he stepped into the hallway and spotted a group of six women chattering amongst themselves like a gaggle of brightly feathered geese. 

Ah, he thought. This must be the place.

The women turned in unison and began making their way down the corridor to enter the last room on the right. He set off in their direction, and when he reached the open classroom door he peeked inside.

Bodie couldn't have said why his heart gave a lurch when he saw Doyle – or perhaps he could, and that was part of the problem. Ray Doyle was contentious, bad-tempered, stroppy, stubborn... and so incredibly hot it made Bodie's blood simmer. He knew he'd be wise to stay away from the man, but for the life of him, he couldn't. Now that he'd found out all about Doyle, Bodie wanted to know more.

Doyle stood in profile to him, engaged in conversation with an elderly woman wearing an oversized, brightly patterned dress. Taking a moment, Bodie allowed his gaze to take Doyle in, head to toe. From his glorious mass of unruly hair, to the dark red sweater and too tight jeans. The way he stood, hip resting against a table top, hand gesturing as he talked, Doyle was alluring, and tempting as hell.

Bodie knew the moment Doyle became aware of him. Doyle's speech stalled and the muscles in his body tensed. Finally, he turned in Bodie's direction as though he were preparing himself to face a firing squad.

Their gazes locked. Doyle's green eyes widened, then narrowed. And Bodie knew exactly what Doyle was thinking... _What the hell do you want?_

With a raise of his eyebrow, Bodie gave Doyle his best smile and a wink. Looking away, Doyle said something to the elderly woman, who nodded and returned to her seat.

"Do you have an admittance slip?" Doyle asked Bodie as he approached.

"I left it at home." Bodie did his best to look contrite.

"What are you doing here?" Doyle's voice was husky and just a tone away from being a growl. Bodie liked it.

"Research," Bodie replied and left it at that.

Around them the classroom mutters and murmurs quieted as all eyes turned to watch their teacher greet his new student. Bodie could tell by Doyle's expression that he had noticed as well – and didn't like it.

Plastering a smile on his face, Doyle said a little too loudly, "Of course you can monitor the session before deciding if you want to join the class. Please take a seat, Mr Bodie."

Bodie grinned and nodded. Sliding into one of the seats near the front, he decided this hadn't been a half-bad idea after all. Doyle was the teacher, he the student. That gave him free rein to stare at Doyle for two hours – chest, legs, hips, arse, and... well, the rest. Not to mention Doyle's rugged face, and curly hair that made Bodie want to run his fingers through it.

By the time the class was ready to start nearly all the seats in the room were filled. Glancing around, Bodie noted the women outnumbered the men two-to-one, and the young outnumbered the old. All of them eyed him and his leather jacket and black jeans like he was some sort of hit man. Since his weapon was secured in his shoulder holster, he couldn't shrug out of his jacket, so he kept it on. 

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Bodie turned his full attention on the best-looking teacher he'd ever had. He watched as Doyle ran his gaze over the length of his body, then reached for the glass of water. After taking a gulp, Doyle cut a stern glance at Bodie before turning his attention to the rest of the class, apparently determined to ignore him. Bodie considered it a personal victory that Doyle felt he needed to try.

"Welcome," Doyle announced. "This is our fifth session. To get things started, does anyone have a dream they'd like to share?"

Several hands went up. Gesturing to a thirty-something woman with short red hair, Doyle said, "Go ahead, Mrs Felder."

Mrs Felder grinned, stood and went to the front of the class. "Well, a few nights ago I had the most bizarre dream. I was in a prison. I've had prison dreams before, a lot of times, but that's beside the point, I suppose." She gave a little laugh. "Anyway, I was in this prison and there was a big courtyard. I watched as guards wheeled in a flat-bedded cart sort of thing. On the cart there was a giant potato. I mean, it was the size of a lorry!"

Felder glanced at Doyle briefly before she continued, "The potato had been cut open and fluffed, like they do in restaurants. But it didn't have any toppings. Then this other prisoner – actually, it was Edward Woodward, the actor, if you can believe that..."

Everyone in the class laughed, and Mrs Felder grinned.

"So, Edward Woodward and I agreed it would be a good idea to climb inside the potato, so that when the guards wheeled it away, we could escape. We did just that, and got out of the prison, and then the dream ended. I can't imagine what in the world it means."

As the class nodded and scribbled notes, Doyle stepped forward and asked Mrs Felder to return to her seat.

To the class Doyle said, "For Mrs Felder to understand what her dream is trying to tell her, she needs to think about what's going on in her life right now. A prison escape and a giant potato, and even a famous actor. Those three things are going to mean something different to each of us. Those dream interpretation books you can buy generally don't help much because different symbols mean different things to different people."

Bodie watched as Doyle crossed the room and sat down on his desk chair to face the class. Leaning his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers, and smiled at Mrs Felder.

"Having said that, a prison can usually be interpreted as confinement, either emotional or physical. And a potato certainly represents food to one degree or another. And Edward Woodward... Mrs Felder envisioned him, while you or I would have dreamed up a different person entirely, depending on what he symbolises to us."

Shifting gears a little, Doyle asked, "Was Mrs Felder's dream prophetic, release, wish, or problem-solving?"

The classroom bubbled with lively conversation and musings as the students debated with each other as to what kind of dream Felder had experienced.

"Mr Bodie?" Doyle looked him squarely in the eyes. "Which do you think it was?" All conversation came to a halt and the room grew quiet.

Bodie squirmed a little in his seat. "Wish?" he guessed.

"Very good." Doyle's eyes were alight with mischief. "And what was Mrs Felder wishing for?"

Bodie shifted around in his seat once again. "That she wants to go out to dinner with Edward Woodward?"

Behind him, several women tittered, a man laughed, and Mrs Felder giggled.

"I doubt that's it," Doyle said, amusement warming his voice. Bodie felt his body respond to Doyle in spite of himself. "That doesn't explain the prison aspect of the dream, Mr Bodie."

Returning his attention to the class, Doyle said, "Anybody else have-"

"Wait!" Mrs Felder rose from her seat. Her fingers clutched a tissue as tears slid down her plump cheeks. "I... I think I know. I want to tell you-"

"It's not necessary, love," Doyle interrupted, his voice calm and soothing. "I understand now, but you don't have to talk about this in class." His eyes were filled with compassion, and some kind of pain Bodie didn't understand.

Mrs Felder shook her head. "I want to... my husband," she stammered, voice thick with tears. "We don't have a good marriage. He's so controlling, you see. Harsh. Physically, if you know what I mean? I eat. It's what I do to escape, to be kind to myself. Even though I realise it, I can't seem to stop." She wiped her eyes. "I think the prison represents my marriage, the potato was the food I use to cope, to escape. It's probably obvious by just looking at me." She sobbed again. "And Edward Woodward... well, maybe he represents my an-anger." She was crying full-out now.

"Let's take a break, shall we," Doyle said quietly.

Quickly crossing the room, Doyle sat down next to Mrs Felder and took hold of her hand. "It's okay," Doyle murmured. "You're safe here."

The other students stood and began filing out of the room, throwing looks of sympathy in Mrs Felder's direction. Bodie went to the door, but didn't leave.

Knowing that Mrs Felder's husband was hitting her made Bodie's stomach tighten and his hands clench into fists at his sides. Bastard. There should be a special place in hell for men who abused women.

Doyle lifted his head and looked across the room at Bodie. Their eyes locked, and there was no mistaking the plea in his gaze. Pushing away from the doorframe, he made his way toward Doyle and Mrs Felder.

"This is Bodie," Doyle quietly introduced. "He's a friend, and he's..." Green eyes stared up at him asking for help to explain what, exactly, was Bodie's profession.

"In law enforcement." Bodie added, going with that title thinking it would be easier for the distraught woman to understand than giving details of him being a CI5 agent.

Mrs Felder raised her tear-stained face to him and brought the tissue to her nose, but said nothing.

"I can help you," Bodie continued, "but you must file charges against your husband."

Taking a small note pad and pencil from his pocket, Bodie jotted down a number then held out the piece of paper to her. "It's the number of a women's shelter," he said. "It's safe. Call them."

Mrs Felder gazed down at the paper, sniffed and took it. "Thank you. I'll think about it. I have children, and-"

"Then do it for them, if not for yourself. All right?" Bodie gave her a caring smile.

She nodded and turned to Doyle. "I'll think about it, really. I'm going to go now. I've never told anybody about this before. I can't believe I did. I'm so sorry."

"Mrs Felder," Doyle said, his voice gentle, "there's no reason for you to apologise. A person can only take so much for so long. You wanted it to come out. Your dream was telling you it was time. Please, take Bodie's advice, go to the shelter."

Mrs Felder nodded again, then went and gathered up her handbag and notebook. Silently, she walked to the door. Before moving into the hall she paused, turned to Doyle, and smiled before stepping away.

"She won't call, will she." Doyle's words were not a question.

"Probably not."

"Is there anything we can do?"

Bodie released a long sigh. "No."

"She's a nice woman."

Bodie nodded and muttered, "Yeah. They usually are."

As the students returned to the room, Bodie took his seat, and for the next ninety minutes he watched Doyle conduct class. Bodie had to admit, Doyle knew his stuff. Most of it was rubbish, of course, but that was beside the point.

Doyle's hands were expressive and he tended to move them as he spoke. Bodie studied Doyle's mouth, too, as it formed all sorts of words – smart words, kind words, engaging words. With each word he spoke, Doyle became more attractive to Bodie, and more desirable.

After class was finished, a few students lingered to ask questions. Bodie bided his time, waiting until everyone had gone and he was alone with Doyle.

"You're very good with your students. Thought you handled Mrs Felder's situation very well."

"Oh, ta, mate." Doyle smiled then his face became serious. "Hadn't realised until tonight how much she's hurting. Just wish there was more I could do."

Bodie lifted a shoulder. "Knows she can come to you, doesn't she. And, she knows there are people who care about her. Perhaps that'll give her the strength to leave the pillock," Bodie growled.

Doyle's gaze lifted to meet Bodie's eyes. "You seem to have strong feelings about domestic violence."

"Just don't like to see women being abused."

Doyle nodded, staring at Bodie for a minute before tossing a bunch of papers and a book into a briefcase and snapping the lid closed.

"Hungry?" Bodie blurted out without thinking. He hadn't intended to say it, but now that he had, he decided to run with it. "Want to get a bite to eat?"

Doyle blinked and looked taken aback for a moment. "I am a tad hungry."

"Excellent. What's your pleasure, Doyle?" Bodie grinned, vigorously rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. "Chinese? Italian?"

Doyle hesitated a moment, then eyed him with suspicion. "You want to go and eat, and talk about the Malone case? Or is this a... go out on a date sort of thing?"

Bodie flashed him a bright grin. ""Exactly like a date. Came to your class, didn't I? Only fair you come out with me."

Averting his eyes, Doyle shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea."

Bodie stepped right up in front of Doyle. "You think too much." He slid his hand around to the nape of Doyle's neck, and tugged the man toward him. Green eyes opened wide in shock, but before Doyle could pull away or protest, Bodie bent his head and kissed him.

***

Any protests Doyle may have been about to verbalise died a quick death the second Bodie's lips touched his own. He simply let his mind go blank and allowed himself to savour the feel of Bodie's warm, hard body pressed up against him. While Bodie's chest and abs felt like tempered steel, the man's mouth was soft, his lips coaxing, parting over Doyle's.

The kiss seemed to go on and on, their tongues sliding together in an intimate dance. All too soon, Bodie pulled back slowly, licked along Doyle's lower lip, suckling it, before breaking contact.

Doyle released a small groan of pleasure. "Well, that was... umm..."

"Fantastic?" Bodie grinned brightly, his blue eyes sparkling.

"I was going to say nice." Doyle returned the grin. "But fantastic will do."

"Bloody right it will." Leaning in, Bodie gave Doyle another searing kiss, then pulled away. "Alright, I'm famished. Where shall we go to eat?"

Doyle gave Bodie the name of one of his favourite places to eat. A little Italian restaurant named Casa Frascati, which served the best Linguini Marinara he'd ever tasted. "You'll love it," Doyle said with a smile.

"Sounds delectable. Let's go." Bodie wrapped a hand around Doyle's elbow and ushered him toward the door.

***

Even though Casa Frascati wasn't a very large place, the dining room still gave the impression of feeling airy and spacious, with its large front windows and elegant yet simply decorated tables. As soon as Doyle and Bodie were settled in their chairs, a young male waiter appeared and offered them menus.

" _Saluto_ ," the waiter greeted, his accent thick. "Welcome to Casa Frascati. It is nice to see you here again, _Signore_ Doyle."

"Hello, Emilio." Doyle smiled. "Good to see you as well. I've brought a friend." He nodded at Bodie.

" _Sì_ , I can see that." Emilio grinned and addressed Bodie, " _Benvenuto, signore._ "

" _Saluto, Emilio, e grazie. Qual è la specialità stasera_?" Bodie asked.

Doyle stared, more impressed with Bodie than he would have imagined. Before he could say anything though, Emilio answered, "This evening, the Penne Pesto con Rucola is especially _delizioso._ "

" _Perfetto. Questo è ciò che dovrò_ ," replied Bodie.

" _Ottima scelta, signore_ ," Emilio answered Bodie with a slight tilt of his head then turned to Doyle. "And for you, _Signore_ Doyle? Your usual tonight, or would you prefer some time to choose from the menu?"

Doyle flipped his menu closed and smiled at the waiter. "My usual, please, Emilio."

" _Sì_ , of course." Emilio gathered up the menus. "Would you like some wine?"

Doyle looked over at Bodie, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Love some," Bodie said. "Two glasses of your best red."

" _Assolutamente._ I will be right back with bread and your wine."

After Emilio left, Doyle eyed Bodie. "You speak Italian very well."

Bodie's lips quirked. " _Grazie._ "

"Do you know any other languages?"

"Six," Bodie replied and relaxed back in his chair.

Doyle's eyebrows rose up to his forehead. "Eh?"

They were momentarily interrupted by Emilio as he placed a basket of bread on the table and poured wine into their glasses. Once the waiter left, Bodie continued, "I know six, including Italian. Have to. It's a requirement for every CI5 agent to know at least three languages, I chose to learn six." 

"Which ones can you speak?"

Bodie counted them off on his fingers. "German, Russian, Arabic, French, Spanish, and Italian." He grinned, his eyes glittering as he took a sip of his wine.

"I'm impressed." Doyle locked gazes with Bodie and returned the smile. Once again he felt the sizzle of attraction flow between them. "I probably shouldn't say this, but you have an amazing smile, which I'm sure you're very well aware of, and use without compunction to your advantage."

Bodie's grin brightened. "Of course." He stared into Doyle's eyes for a long time before turning his attention to the plate of pasta that was being placed in front of him. 

" _Grazie_ ," Bodie said. 

"Will there be anything else?" Emilio asked.

Doyle shook his head. "No, we're fine for now. Thank you, Emilio."

" _Sei benvenuto._ " Emilio bowed slightly, turned and walked away.

As they worked their way through the meal, a comfortable silence filled the narrow space across the linen-covered table. Covertly, Doyle watched Bodie's hands as he used his fork to pin down a runaway piece of penne.

Bodie had lovely hands, square and masculine. Doyle wanted those hands on him again. He remembered how the rough palms had warmed his skin when Doyle'd done Bodie's reading. And how those strong fingers had felt wrapped around his waist after Malone's attack. 

Looking over at Bodie, Doyle asked, "What else would you like to know?"

Bodie raised his head and chuckled. "Haven't asked you anything yet."

"Oh, come on, Bodie. Surely you've done a background check on me. All coppers do it." Doyle took a bite of bread.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Doyle shook his head. "Don't give me that innocent look, I'm not buying it."

Bodie seemed a little peeved, but nodded. "Okay, fine. I checked you out a little."

"A _little_?" Doyle laughed. "I'll just bet."

Though Doyle kept his wry smile in place, his chest began to tighten uncomfortably, and his appetite suddenly vanished. He should have known better than to have dinner with Bodie. Taking a sip of his wine, Doyle wondered how much Bodie had found out about him. If Bodie knew everything, would he judge Doyle now? Would he find Doyle lacking? With a sick feeling in his stomach, Doyle realised that he cared what Bodie thought. How the hell could he have let that happen?

***

Slowly, Bodie pushed his empty plate away. He thought about how much he should tell Doyle. Doyle probably wouldn't be at all happy about some of the things his file had disclosed, but then again, how was Bodie going to learn more if he avoided the very topics he wanted to know more about?

Bodie could tell that Doyle was nervous. Had been since before Bodie'd admitted to doing a background check, but now Doyle's mouth had tightened and he kept his eyes down, studying his half-empty plate. Very unlike the confrontational, feisty attitude he'd displayed ever since they met. Bodie knew he'd have to tread carefully.

"Quite honestly, Doyle," Bodie ventured, "I think it only fair that I know something about you, given that you know so much about me."

Doyle levelled his green eyes on Bodie. "What are you talking about?"

"Shared my dream with you, didn't I. About my brother Robert. I'm sure there are things you supposedly 'saw' or guessed about that you're keeping to yourself. I figure it only right I know some of your secrets as well."

"That's ridiculous."

"All's fair to share, I swear, but beware, I, dare... uh, say."

Doyle blinked, then blinked again. "What the hell was that?"

"Poetry."

"Was not." Doyle smirked.

"Yeah, well, was on this case a while back, posing as a reclusive poet-" Doyle's laughter interrupted Bodie. "I'll have you know it wasn't easy."

Doyle laughed again. "Apparently not." Assessing Bodie closely, he said, "You're getting me off track here, Bodie. Let's get back to what you think you know about me, shall we?"

"All right," Bodie said. "You have no outstanding warrants. Your main source of income is painting, which you do from home. You began the dream interpretation sideline two years ago, to modest success." He took a sip of wine, then set the glass down. "You pay your bills on time. You live within your means. You have a current account, but not much in the way of savings. You inherited your house from your grandmother. Your father left you and your mum when you were ten. You never saw him again. Your mother died five years ago. You left your lover a year ago when you discovered he was being unfaithful. Since then, you have not been seriously involved with anyone."

There was more, but Bodie thought he should keep it to himself. Taking it any deeper might upset Doyle more than he already was – maybe even hurt him. And judging from the panicked look in his eyes, Doyle was wary of exactly how much Bodie knew.

Tossing his napkin on the table, Doyle said, "Well, aren't we thorough."

"Look, Ray, I-"

Doyle shook his head. "No, it's fine." Pushing himself away from the table, he quickly stood up. 

Bodie shot to his feet and made a grab for Doyle's arm. Wrapping his fingers around Doyle's wrist, he said, "Give me a sec to pay the bill and I'll drive you home."

Doyle shook him off. "I will pay my own bill and see myself home, thank you very much." He walked away then turned to glare at Bodie. "I may have interpreted your dream, Bodie, but I did not violate your privacy. Checking me out like that was very, very low."

"I don't think I said anything-"

"It's what you _didn't_ say." Doyle's voice rose. "The other things. You know about those, too, don't you?"

Bodie nodded. "I'm sorry for what you've been through. I had no idea."

"You don't know the half of it, Bodie. And it wasn't for you to find out. It was my choice who to share it with. A lover, perhaps. A man I've grown to trust, a man who cares about me, a man who has a right to know." Raising his hand, Doyle jabbed a finger at him. "It was not for a smug, smartarsed CI5 agent."

Around them, the other diners raised their heads in curious interest. Across the room, Emilio frowned and began moving toward their table.

"Fine. I admit it. I'm a bastard." Bodie took a step closer to Doyle only to have the man back away.

Emilio arrived and addressed Doyle, "Is there a problem, _Signore_ Doyle?"

Without taking his eyes from Bodie, Doyle said, "Emilio, would you please call a taxi for me."

The waiter gave a quick nod. "Of course, _Signore._ Please, come with me."

As Doyle walked away, Bodie tossed some notes on the table. As far as first dates went, this one had gone dreadfully wrong. He wanted to follow Doyle home, make sure he got there safely, but Doyle would probably have him arrested for stalking him. Just when he decided to do it anyway, the RT in his pocket beeped. Walking to the front of the restaurant, he pushed his way through the entrance doors and stepped out onto the quiet pavement. 

Leaning against the side of the building, Bodie slid the RT out of the inside pocket of his jacket and discreetly spoke into it. "3.7."

"Hate to disrupt your evening, mate," Murphy's solemn voice filled the silence, "but we've got another one."

"Location?"

Murphy gave him the address. "In the alley. Carotid was sliced. The bloke bled to death. Pretty messy."

"On my way."

Bodie shoved the radio into his pocket and went back inside. Walking through the door, he spotted Doyle sitting on a stool at the small bar. Ignoring the glare he got from Emilio, Bodie headed straight for Doyle. 

"Hey," he said, and Doyle looked up, astonishment widening those green eyes. Reaching for Doyle's arm, Bodie pulled him to his feet. Quietly, he spoke into Doyle's ear. "I need you to come with me. I'm going to drop you at your car at the community centre." When he saw Doyle's mouth form a protest, Bodie shook his head. "No. Don't argue with me, Doyle."

Wrapping a hand around Doyle's upper arm, Bodie quickly escorted him away from the bar and through the front door. Out on the pavement, Doyle attempted to struggle out of Bodie's grasp. Bodie tightened his grip and tugged Doyle along even faster. 

"Will you stop for a minute," Doyle hissed, digging his heels in and slowing down their forward momentum only a little. "Will you just stop for a minute and talk to me, Bodie!"

Bodie stopped abruptly, making Doyle curse as he ploughed into the back of him. Turning around he glared at Doyle. "Look, I'll talk to you once we're in the car. Okay?"

After eyeing Bodie for a second, Doyle gave a brief nod. "Fine."

They made the rest of the way to Bodie's car in silence. After unlocking the door for Doyle, Bodie moved around to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel.

After putting the key into the ignition, he glanced at Doyle. "The day Malone attacked you, you told me he'd had a dream about killing a man in an alley."

"Yes," Doyle replied, his voice uncertain. "Why?"

Steering the car out into the light traffic, Bodie said, "Tell me about it again. And don't leave anything out."

***

Bodie surveyed the crime scene with a frown. From the look of things, the murder victim had lain for some time unnoticed amongst the debris choking the small alley behind the rundown, four storey block of flats.

That the man had been overlooked was no surprise. The weekly rubbish collection wasn't until tomorrow and the row of dustbins were filled to overflowing. When the elderly resident of Flat 3B had shuffled out to dispose of her rubbish, she'd noticed a stench emanating from behind the crammed bins and called the coppers.

Rubbish was one thing, Bodie thought grimly as he approached the old woman. But the odour of death was foul – overpowering and unmistakable, even by someone who'd never smelt it before.

"Mrs Cresswell," Bodie said, addressing the small, frail looking woman. "I'd just like to ask you a few questions. Okay?"

Her lips didn't quite curve all the way into a smile, but she nodded. "Yes, that's fine."

Bodie took her by the elbow and guided her a little further out of the alley, away from the crime scene and the stench of death.

"Your flat overlooks the alley, is that correct?" Bodie asked.

She nodded, curling her bony fingers around the throat of her flower print housecoat.

"If there was any commotion down there," Bodie pointed in the direction of the alley, "you might hear it?"

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Sometimes." Averting her eyes, she focused her attention on the faded blue slippers she wore.

"Mrs Cresswell," Bodie said patiently, "there is nothing to be afraid of. I just need to know if you saw or heard noises in the alley recently. Voices, yelling, perhaps a fight?"

Pressing her lips together, she gave a quick nod. "I think it was drugs," she quietly replied.

"What did you hear?"

She swallowed, and glanced into the alley which was now lit up with beams of light and busy with activity. "There was some yelling, yes. And a man sounded like he was crying."

"When was this?"

"Four nights ago. I was watching the telly when outside the window there were noises. A man screaming, then footsteps running away. I got up, looked outside but it was very dark."

Bodie glanced up at the window belonging to Mrs Cresswell's flat. While the window was small, it did hold a good view of the entire alley all the way out to the street."

"Tell me what you saw," Bodie gently pushed.

"At first, I thought it was just a shadow on the pavement, but then it moved." She lifted her chin, indicating the spot a few feet away from them. "He stayed close to the wall and hurried out of the alley."

" _He_? It was a man then?"

"Could have been a man." She shrugged her frail shoulders, "or a woman. In the darkness, it was hard to tell. Went down the street that way." She pointed out toward the street, showing that the suspect had fled east on Melbury Avenue.

Using his small pad and a pencil, Bodie jotted down a phone number before handing the paper to Mrs Cresswell. "If you think of anything else, you call that number, okay?"

Taking the paper, she glanced at it. "I will."

"Thank you for your help, Mrs Cresswell." Bodie signalled to one of the uniformed coppers who were standing guard at the mouth of the alley. As the officer escorted the elderly woman back to her flat, Bodie sought out his partner. He found Murphy standing next to the body, his brown hair mussed like he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration.

"You all right, mate?"

"We need to catch this bloke," Murphy groused.

"You'll get no arguments from me, Murph." After giving Murphy's shoulder an understanding squeeze, Bodie stepped next to the covered body which had already been moved to a trolley by the medical team. Pulling back the sheet, he looked at the victim's face and studied the gaping wound on the dead man's neck. "Could be a broken bottle did this. Was one found?"

Murphy gave Bodie an incredulous look and glanced around the alley. "In all this rubbish? We'll be lucky if we find any evidence."

With a frustrated sigh, Bodie covered the body. Snagging the torch Murphy had in his hand, he began to meander around. In the area where the body had been discovered, and outlined with tape, Bodie crouched down and flipped on the torch, illuminating the ground around him. A sticky black stain pooled at the spot where the victim had fallen and bled to death.

Newspapers littered the tarmac, some saturated with blood, some not. Bodie nudged the papers out of the way and shone the light on the broken glass underneath. Most of the pieces were too small to get any kind of prints from, but he kept rummaging around, finally revealing part of an intact piece of glass from the neck of a wine bottle.

"Hey, Murph," Bodie called over his shoulder. "Hand me an evidence bag."

"Got something?" Passing Bodie a bag, Murphy peered over Bodie's shoulder. "Oh, good catch, mate. Might get a print off that."

"Might be nothing, but I'm guessing the victim was cracked against the back of the head with a bottle."

"Like with a wine bottle."

Bodie nodded. "If the bottle broke on impact, the killer might have taken another swing with the broken piece, slicing open our victim's throat."

Murphy cocked his head. "So, our killer hits the old man with a bottle. It breaks. Victim is stunned, probably down on the tarmac at this point. Why did the killer take another swipe? Why kill him?"

Using his handkerchief, Bodie slid the glass into the plastic evidence bag and sealed it. "Find anything in his pockets?"

"Not a whole lot," Murphy answered. "Two quid and a lighter. So, unless the killer got scared and ran off before he could rob our victim, there must be another motive."

"Another motive," Bodie repeated softly as he stood and switched off the torch. "That's what worries me, Murph. Worries me a lot."

***

Doyle had just settled into his favourite chair in his lounge when the doorbell rang. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, he frowned, wondering who would be calling this late in the evening. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself out of his seat and went to open the front door.

"Good evening, Mr Doyle. My name is Agent Murphy, I believe you know my partner, Agent Bodie."

Doyle stared up at the tall, good-looking man, then shot a quick glance at Bodie, who was standing a few steps behind, his gaze locked on Doyle, hands in his pockets.

"May we come in?" Murphy asked.

Thoroughly confused by Bodie's tense silence, Doyle opened the door wider to allow the men entry. As they entered the lounge, he indicated that the two men sit on the sofa while he took the chair. 

"What's this about?" Doyle asked, his gaze shifting to Bodie. A tingle of unease slid up his spine from the chary look on the man's face.

"Agent Bodie is here tonight in an advisory capacity only. He will simply observe our conversation without contributing to it. He's excused himself from the case because of his personal affiliation with you."

"Personal affiliation? We don't _have_ a personal affiliation," Doyle said, frowning at Bodie. "That dream you asked me about. What happened? Did you find..." He let his voice trail off, hoping one of the men would say it had all been a mistake, that no old man had been killed in an alley.

Murphy leant forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "We've just come from the scene of a murder. A murder which closely resembles, in detail, the, uh... dream you told Bodie about."

"Shit." Doyle hesitated, building up his courage before asking, "Who was it?"

"We don't know," Bodie replied. "An old man, in an alley."

Their eyes remained locked for a moment until finally Doyle couldn't handle the intensity of Bodie's gaze and he looked away. "Like in the dream," Doyle said. "Malone's dream."

Doyle got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. Set on the mantel in a small frame was a picture his grandmother had taken of his family as it had been just over two and a half decades ago. His mother stood behind him, pushing him on a swing in the back garden, while his father looked on, smiling affectionately. They had been innocent times, for Doyle hadn't yet suffered the trauma that had opened the door to his psychic gift.

 _Gift._ Sometimes it was. Sometimes not.

Bodie came up to stand behind him. When Bodie spoke, Doyle felt the waft of his warm breath on the back of his neck. Stupidly, he wanted to sink back into him, to feel those arms come around him, to hear Bodie tell him everything would be all right. But Doyle knew it wouldn’t happen.

"An old man in an alley, Ray. A broken wine bottle was used to slice the artery in his neck."

Doyle turned to face him. Bodie looked at him, his blue eyes clouded with bewilderment.

"I'm sorry," Doyle whispered. Before he could say more, Bodie's strong fingers landed on his shoulders.

"How the hell did you know?" Bodie ground out between clenched teeth. "And don't give me any of that dream bullshit. I want to know who Malone is. Where he is. If you don't tell me right now, we're taking you in as an accessory."

Doyle's mouth flattened as he stared at Bodie. "Fine. Go ahead. Arrest me, if that will make you feel better. I've told you everything I know."

Bodie stood only inches from him, close enough for Doyle to slide his arms around Bodie's neck and pull him in for a kiss. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from Bodie's body, smell the spicy, musky scent of him, hear the breath leave his body as he spoke.

Close enough to knee the irritating prat right in the groin.

"I had nothing to do with that man's death," Doyle said, staring hard and deep into Bodie's eyes. "If I knew who David Malone was, I'd bloody well tell you."

Bodie looked at him for a long time, just looked. His expression never changed, but before Bodie could say anything, Murphy spoke up. "Sit down, Bodie. You're not part of this now, remember?"

Bodie's gaze dropped to Doyle's mouth and lingered there, then slowly lifted to his eyes. Without another word, Bodie let go of his shoulders and stepped away.

"I'll wait in the car," Bodie said as he passed the other agent.

After he'd gone, Murphy stood up. "We won't be taking you in right now. If you think of anything else, you don't call Bodie." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small business card and tossed it onto the coffee table. "You call that number," he pointed to the card, "and ask for me. Understand?"

Doyle nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll let myself out," Murphy said as he left the room.

When he heard the front door close, Doyle slowly moved to the window. He pulled aside the curtain in time to see Murphy slide into the car where Bodie was waiting. When the car door closed, the interior light dimmed to nothing, making it too dark to see the men any longer, but as the Capri rolled away, Doyle had the distinct impression Bodie's accusing eyes were on him.

Releasing the curtain, Doyle dropped down heavily onto the sofa. Resting his head in his hands, he released a long groan. In one of the small chambers of his heart, the door he'd only recently had the courage to open quietly swung closed.

***

Getting to sleep was proving to be a real challenge. Nothing Doyle usually did to get comfortable was working. His head hurt from lack of sleep, and his eyes felt gritty, like they had a ton of sand in them.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Doyle gave his innocent pillow a hard punch and tried to manoeuvre it into a shape that would allow him to rest his weary head. But as soon as he closed his eyes, the images that popped up behind his lids kept him tossing and turning, kicking and cursing.

Maybe he should get up and go for a jog. Let all those emotions spill out as he ran until he was so exhausted, his muscles spent, he'd collapse on the bed and fall asleep.

Sex would work, too, if he only had a partner... it would work even better if that partner happened to be Bodie.

Frustrated, Doyle sat up in bed and switched on the bedside lamp. He pushed off the covers and was about to get up when the phone rang. With a frown, he picked up the receiver, and glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-six. "Hello?"

"Mr Doyle?"

Doyle forced air into his lungs. "Mr Malone."

"I'm sorry to call so late," Malone rushed, "but I need to talk to you. I'm... I'm so sorry about the other day. It's trite to say it, but I don't know what came over me. Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," Doyle said carefully. "But you could have. You need professional help, Mr Malone. You risk hurting others in future if you don't get it." Malone seemed to still be listening, so he pressed on. "I can give you some referrals, if you'd like."

"I don't want referrals," Malone protested. "I only want you. You're the only one who understands. No one knows about... I mean, I can't talk to anybody about the dreams. Just you. You're kind and caring, and you don't judge me."

Doyle wondered what he should do next. He didn't want to say anything that would make Malone hang up, maybe even disappear, especially when the police wanted to talk to him.

"Mr Malone, it would help if you would share your name with me. David Malone is not your real name, is it?"

When Malone didn't answer, Doyle quickly said, "How about just your first name? That's all. I could help you better if I knew what it was."

Even though Malone didn't speak, Doyle knew the man was still on the line because he could hear the faint rumble of cars, the blare of horns, distant conversation.

"You're right," Malone finally said. "David Malone isn't my real name."

"What is it?" Doyle carefully pressed when Malone didn't continue.

"I'll tell you, but in return, you must do something for me."

The possibilities of what Malone would want Doyle to do tumbled through his head. He wasn't getting a thing from Malone psychically. The man was totally shut down and the only way Doyle could get him to open up was to assure him he had Doyle's trust.

"Okay," Doyle agreed. "Tell me your first name and I'll do something for you in return. But in all fairness, I do need to know what I'm agreeing to before I decide."

"No. If I'm going to trust you enough to tell you my name, you're going to have to trust me, too."

Doyle did his best to hide his growl of frustration. "Fine. I agree. Tell me your name."

There was the briefest silence on the other end of the line, then Malone said, "It's Arthur."

"Arthur," Doyle repeated. "It's a good name."

"Thank you," Malone said quickly. "Now, Mr Doyle, here's what I want you to do."

***

The ringing of the phone startled Bodie out of a deep sleep. Rolling over onto his back, he reached his hand out to the side and fumbled for the receiver. "Hello," he said groggily.

"Hi." 

"Doyle?"

"Yeah, it's me. Look, I know I'm not supposed to call you, but... it's Malone, he wants to meet, I'm leaving to see him now."

Bodie sat straight up in bed, the impact of Doyle's words slamming into his skull like a fist to his temple. "No," he snarled. "You are not meeting him alone." 

"Listen, I made a deal with him. He promised to tell me his first name if I'd do something for him in return. That would help the case, wouldn't it? To get his name?"

"Doyle-"

"No, just listen for a second, Bodie. It's the only way to draw him out. He wants to talk about his dream log, even said he'd bring it with him. I'm meeting him at twelve-thirty at St. James's Park. Figured it would be safe enough there. Still lots of people about, even at this time of night. He wouldn't be able to corner me or anything."

Bodie closed his eyes. "Not unless he pulls out a gun and shoots you from across the street!" he yelled in frustration. If that bastard touched one hair on Doyle's head...

"Wasn't born yesterday, you know. I've already called Murphy," he rushed on. "He's going to be waiting at the west end of the park. I just... I thought you should know. Oh, and Bodie? David Malone's real first name is Arthur."

Before Bodie could say anything, the line went dead. "Damn it!" he shouted and slammed the receiver down. Without wasting a second, he yanked on a pair of black jeans and t-shirt, and dark leather jacket. As soon as he'd put on his socks and shoes, he grabbed his weapon and rushed for the door.

Flinging his car door open, he threw himself behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. By the time he shifted into first and pulled out onto the street, he was on the radio with his partner.

"You're supposed to stay out of this, Bodie," Murphy said, his voice sounding slightly annoyed.

"Like hell I will!" Bodie barked. "How could you let him go off on his own?"

"Doyle's the only one who can identify this bloke, and he refused to stay out of it. Said he was confident that we would keep him safe."

"Christ," Bodie grumbled as he guided the Capri around a tight corner in a squeal of tyres. "He's going to get himself killed."

"I've talked to Cowley and backup's on its way. Once he and Malone make contact, we'll move in. I'm at the park now, but I haven't seen Doyle yet, it's foggier than bloody pea soup down here."

"I'm almost there," Bodie said, cutting off contact and tossing the mic in the direction of the passenger seat.

Roaring down Abingdon Street, he dodged cars and late-night pedestrians. He quickly checked his watch: twelve thirty-seven. Shit. A red light forced him to slow, but as soon as the road junction was clear, he gunned the car through it. He was still five streets away and didn't dare use his siren for fear of scaring Malone away, or making him hurt Doyle.

As soon as he approached the junction of St. Margaret Street and Bridge Street, he cranked the wheel left and shot the Capri around the corner. One street before the park, Bodie slammed on the brakes, parked the car and began to run the rest of the way.

His heart thundered in his chest as he approached the far east side of the park. Sticking to the shadows, he scanned the area – what he could see of it, that is. In typical springtime fashion, London was shrouded in a dense, damp fog that obliterated any objects more than twenty yards off. Despite the weather and the hour, people milled around. Couples strolled along the pathways, their arms entwined, enjoying the cool night air and each other. But while there were people around, none of them appeared to be a lame-brained golly biting off more than he could chew.

The fog thinned suddenly and Bodie caught sight of Charlie and McCabe sitting in their parked Capri just opposite the park. Pulling his RT from his jacket pocket, and speaking into it quietly, he contacted them.

"8.5. here, go ahead 3.7.," Charlie answered.

"Been here long?" Bodie asked.

"About ten minutes. Just been keeping an eye out, like Murphy asked. So far, no suspicious-looking men lurking about. Fog's making it tough, though."

"Where's 2.6.?" Bodie enquired about Murphy

"Headed off into the park about five minutes ago."

Just then Bodie spotted Doyle emerging from the mist, sauntering along one of the pathways. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, but it was the hair that snared Bodie. There couldn't be another person on the planet who had a mass of curly hair like that.

"I've made visual," Bodie said into his RT. "Stay put for now. I'm going to approach."

"Roger that."

Crossing the street against the light, Bodie headed in Doyle's direction. Doyle hadn't noticed him yet, but his head was up, arms rested at his sides, and he walked along like he owned the place. As Bodie neared, he could tell that Doyle's eyes were alert, his demeanour assured. Although Bodie didn't know for sure, it looked like Doyle'd had some training in self-defence, or at the very least to march along like you're not a victim waiting to happen.

Bodie smiled to himself. Damn if Doyle wasn't something.

When Doyle slowed down for a moment to get his bearings, Bodie moved toward him.

" _Excusez-moi, Monsieur_ ," Bodie said loudly in a pseudo-French accent. 

Doyle looked at him as recognition dawned and Bodie didn't miss the look of relief he saw in those green eyes.

" _Je suis perdu_... umm, I am... lost. Perhaps you could point me in the correct _direction_?"

With a lick of his lips, Doyle flicked a quick glance around the area. "Where is it you want to go?" He met Bodie's eyes and Bodie could tell he was nervous, but not afraid.

"I am looking for _le café_ … at the Inn Restaurant. I am to meet with _mes amis_ … my, uh… friends."

"It's not far from here. Just down this path, and around the corner." Doyle raised an arm and gestured to his right. "I'm meeting someone myself, but he hasn't shown up yet."

A couple holding hands came up behind Doyle, wove their way around him and past Bodie, then kept walking, huddled together, sharing an intimate conversation.

Bodie nodded, scanned the area in an interested tourist kind of way. "This fog, it is _très_ thick. Perhaps I stay until your friend arrive, _oui_? It is not safe to be here all alone." Bodie leaned in closer. Ditching the French accent, he lowered his voice so only Doyle could hear and said with a growl, "In fact, some would say it was downright idiotic."

Narrowing his eyes, Doyle replied, "No need. Can take care of myself. But thank you for the concern. You can go now."

"Mr Doyle?" A man's voice emerged from the fog a split second before he did.

From the corner of his eye, Bodie could see a vague figure approaching.

"Arthur?" Doyle asked.

The man stepped forward, coming within a few feet of Doyle. He wore a heavy parka and a woollen hat pulled low over his forehead. His jaw was unshaven, and in the dim glow from the streetlamps Bodie couldn't make out his features clearly.

Speaking to Doyle, the man gestured to Bodie and asked, "Is this man bothering you?"

Bodie fought down his sense of irritation and focused instead on the small book clutched in the bloke's left hand.

"Arthur, are you all right?" Doyle asked, shifting toward him, "You look terrible."

Arthur never took his eyes off Bodie. "You're intruding. Please leave."

In his peripheral vision, Bodie saw Arthur cautiously make his way even closer to Doyle. He knew by this time his fellow CI5 agents would be close by, hidden by the fog. Now that Bodie had made contact, to ensure Doyle's safety nobody would do anything until he gave the signal.

Arthur was standing way too close to Doyle for Bodie's liking. He needed to get between them, then take this bloke down.

Just then a group of people appeared, chattering and filling the path with too many bodies, temporarily obscuring Bodie's view of both Doyle and Arthur.

As the crowd cleared, he saw Arthur make a grab for Doyle, snaring his wrist in a tight grip.

That changed everything.

Bodie rushed forward, thrusting his free arm around Arthur's neck, putting him in a lock.

"CI5," Bodie growled as Murphy, McCabe and Charlie materialised out of the fog, their weapons drawn. "You're under arrest for assault-"

"What the hell?" Arthur choked. "Let me go! I didn't do anything!" He began to struggle, reaching forward, clawing at the mist with his fingers, making a grab for Doyle. But Doyle stepped back, out of reach, his arms wrapping around his waist.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't know what else to do. It'll be okay," Doyle placated.

"You set me up?" Arthur rasped as Bodie kept him in a hold. "You fucking bastard! I trusted you! You were the only one I trus — Goddamn you!" He directed his yell at Bodie now. "Let me go!"

"Settle down, mate," Bodie warned. "Don't make this-"

Behind them, a woman suddenly screamed and McCabe turned in her direction. Arthur lashed out with his foot, kicking the agent in the side of the head, sending him sprawling onto the wet grass. The woman screamed again.

Suddenly a crowd gathered, and Murphy shouted at them to stay back. Arthur took advantage of the distraction to elbow Bodie straight in the gut. Not a hard blow, but enough to knock him off balance.

Arthur was as big as Bodie, and quick. His fist came back, smashing Bodie in the nose, nearly blinding him with pain. As the two of them grappled for domination, Arthur broke free of Bodie's hold.

Like a shot, Arthur was on the run, Bodie right on his heels.

"Hold your fire!" Bodie yelled to the other agents as he drew his own weapon.

All of a sudden there were too many people in the way, blocking Bodie's view of Arthur, slowing his pursuit. Cursing, panting, his nose bleeding like buggery, Bodie peered into the fog trying to tell which way Arthur had gone.

"Fuck!" Bodie ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. The fog closed in, welcoming the fleeing suspect into its embrace, but shutting Bodie out.

For an hour they combed the entire area. It was too late, though. Arthur, a.k.a David Malone, had vanished.

***

Doyle watched in dismay as Bodie, Murphy and another agent took off after Arthur. The agent that Arthur had kicked in the head remained with Doyle, staying close and positioning himself between Doyle and the small crowd that had gathered.

"Agent Charlie McCabe," the agent introduced himself and held out his hand.

Doyle shook Charlie's hand. "Ray Doyle."

"Don't wander off," Charlie ordered. "I don't think the suspect will come back, but just in case."

"I understand." Doyle took in the blood on the side of the agent's face. "You all right?"

Clutching a white handkerchief in his fist, Charlie put it to his temple and grinned. "I've got worse just roughhousing with me mates."

Dear God, he hadn't meant for any of this to happen. What had he done? Maybe he should have met Arthur alone after all...

No, not only would that have been really stupid, it would have proved Bodie to be right.

Doyle glanced around. What if Bodie's pursuit of Arthur got one of them badly hurt? He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to either of them...

_But especially to Bodie._

_Shut up_ , he told his conscience. He had enough to worry about beside whether he was letting himself fall for some cynical CI5 agent.

As the hour grew later, the crowd, with little excitement left to see, dissipated. Doyle narrowed his eyes and tried to peer through the fog, but nothing moved out there now.

Doyle shivered and pulled his jacket more tightly around him. It felt like it was getting colder.

As Charlie continued to keep tabs on the situation via his odd looking hand radio, Doyle paced, wondering how long it would be before Bodie came back. How long would he and the other agents pursue Arthur before either catching him or giving up?

Damn, why had Arthur grabbed him like he'd done? That had given Bodie the excuse he needed to use force rather than reason. Doyle's thoughts were drowned out by a helicopter hovering overhead, its rhythmic beating of rotors obliterating all other sounds. As its searchlight illuminated the mist around him, Doyle thought he saw something in the grass a few feet away. 

Walking toward it, he knelt down. The moisture from the wet grass immediately seeped through the fabric of his jeans, chilling his knees and shins. He reached forward to pick up the dream log, when a voice stopped him.

"That's evidence. Don't touch it."

Doyle yanked his hand back as he raised his head to see Bodie emerge from the fog. His t-shirt was torn, his face smeared with blood. He had a bruise just below his left eye, and a cut lip.

To Doyle, the man looked glorious, like a medieval warrior just returned from battle. Doyle had the sudden urge to peel Bodie’s clothing away and bathe him, tend to his wounds, feed him a bowl of hot gruel and a mug of mead...

"You look like hell," Doyle said in a quiet voice, while some insane joy quickened the beat of his heart at the realisation that Bodie was okay. "You should see a doctor."

"I'm fine," Bodie replied, crouching down next to him.

Doyle looked at him, suddenly finding himself unable to speak. How sick was it that with his hair mussed, his slightly stubbled jaw bruised, Bodie looked more appealing than ever?

However, instead of telling Bodie that, Doyle said, "This kind of thing happen to you often, does it?"

Pulling a plastic bag from his jacket pocket, Bodie said with a smirk, "On occasion. Your friend got away." Using the edge of his t-shirt, he eased the dream log into the bag and sealed it. "Where'd you park?"

When Doyle gestured down the street, Bodie rose. "Let's go." When Bodie spoke, Doyle didn't miss the annoyed tone to his voice.

"Why are you angry?" Doyle asked, getting to his feet.

Bodie's mouth flattened. "You shouldn't have agreed to meet him without consulting us first. We could have used an agent as a decoy and had more control over the situation. _And_ kept you out of harm's way."

"There was no time-"

"Wait right here," Bodie ordered, and turned away to talk with his partner for a moment. He passed a set of keys to Charlie, then Murphy and the other agents left. As the men walked away, Bodie came up to him and took him by the arm.

"Here's the plan, Sherlock. We're going to your car, then we will proceed to my flat, where I will obtain clean clothing, after which, we will go to your house, where I will park me arse on your sofa, unless you have a spare bed."

"What?" Doyle stopped in his tracks, halting Bodie's forward march. "Why?"

"For the simple reason that it's three in the morning. I'm knackered and in need of a good kip before I take this diary in to have it analysed, dusted for prints, and a copy made that I can read. In the meantime," he growled. "David Malone, or Arthur, or whatever his bloody name is may take it in his head to get even with you for setting him up. If he does, it will be my beautiful face he sees when he comes knocking on your door."

"I know he was surprised, and angry, but after he cools down... You don't really think he'd try to hurt me-"

"Yes, I do," Bodie replied as he once again soldiered Doyle along the path toward his car.

"And here I'd wanted to _nurture_ you!" Doyle spat out, pulling his car keys from his pocket. "Well, I have news for you, Bodie, I can easily change _nurture_ to _neuter_ with a little imagination and a sharp knife!"

When they reached Doyle's white Ford Escort, Bodie turned him in one quick motion. He backed Doyle up until his arse was pressed against the passenger door. Bodie's hands came down on the roof on either side of Doyle's body, trapping him.

"Don't think you want to do that, Sunshine," Bodie murmured, leaning closer. His blue eyes held a glint that could have been menace – or lust.

***

 _He'd lost the book!_ During the struggle with that agent, he'd dropped the goddamned dream log!

Arthur fought to calm himself and think.

Perhaps those agents wouldn't find it. The night had been dark and foggy. Someone else could come across it tomorrow and toss it in the dustbin. Nobody knew what it was, just a bunch of scribbling that wouldn't mean anything to anybody who didn't _know._ He'd never put his name on it, so even if the agents did find the thing it would be quite a stretch to connect it to him.

Fingerprints. Shit, yeah, fingerprints. But he'd never had his prints taken. Even if they lifted some, there was nothing to match it to.

But Doyle... he'd seen it and could identify it as belonging to him.

Arthur's stomach squeezed hard, and he thought he might vomit.

Well, nothing he could do about the diary now, he thought. The only thing he could hope for was that it had been overlooked in the fog. He certainly wasn't going to go back there to look for it.

Dawn played with the horizon, lightening it a shade or two, teasing the sun to rise. He pulled his silver Aston Martin into the garage and turned off the ignition. Finally able to relax, he let his tired body slump behind the wheel as anger and depression hollowed out his insides.

Doyle had set him up. The one person he'd trusted with his innermost thoughts, with his worst fears and literally his most horrific nightmares, had set him up. Doyle'd been his last hope; now he had none. There was nowhere to turn.

With his heart in shreds, his brain a tangled mass of emotions, Arthur walked from the garage toward the private entrance that led upstairs to the bedrooms.

His eyes burned as he quickly went through the doors and took the flight of stairs. At the landing, he stopped and listened before heading for his room. The only sound was the soft tick-tock coming from the ancient grandfather clock that stood in the marbled hall below.

Arthur rubbed his eyes. Sleep, rest, a total and complete shut-down, that's exactly what he needed. He'd sort all this out tomorrow. Somehow, someway. He wasn't a killer, he just _couldn't_ be. But the dreams... so real... so violent...

"Arthur?"

He jerked around to see his brother standing a few feet away in the open doorway of his room. He looked wide awake and wore his gold and black running outfit.

"T-Terence," Arthur stammered. "A bit early to be going out for a run."

His brother was two years younger than he and just as tall. He was a well-disciplined exercise fanatic, was toned and trim and his skin glowed with health. His eyes were blue, like his, like their father's, and at that moment they were bright with alarm.

"Are you hurt?" Terence asked, taking Arthur in, rumpled hair to soggy shoes. "What's happened? Is that _blood_ on your shirt?"

"I'm fine," Arthur rushed. "It's okay. I just need to get cleaned up, get some sleep. It's... it's not what it looks like. Just a little accident."

Terence tilted his head and looked deeply into Arthur's eyes. He hadn't fooled his brother at all. Terence knew him better than anyone, better than he liked.

When Terence spoke, it was almost parental. "Something's been going on, Arthur. I want to know what it is. You come and go at all hours of the day and night. You look like hell. I think it's time we talked."

Arthur swallowed past a painful lump in his throat. Taking in a breath, he blew it out slowly, letting his shoulders drop, letting his heart slow, letting it all go.

"Yes, Terence," Arthur said quietly. "Let's talk."

***

 

"So he spent the night at your house?" Collin's green eyes widened, gleaming with mischief. He set down his coffee mug and leaned across the small café table. "In your bed? Did you have sex? Please tell me you had sex with him. Tell me every detail."

Doyle assessed his best friend over the rim of the cup he held in his hand. "He slept on the sofa in the lounge. By the time I got up he was gone, but he'd folded the blanket, rinsed out the coffee mug he'd used, and put it away."

"He folded... rinsed... aaand put...?" A dreamy look crossed Collin's face. "God, if he was that considerate with a coffee mug, imagine how he'd be in bed."

"Not going there." Doyle sipped at his tea. "What time are you meeting Ethan at the gym?"

Checking his watch, Collin said, "Not until three. We still have half an hour, and don't change the subject. He sounds like an absolute darling. You mustn't let him get away."

"Enough!" Doyle tried to suppress his smile, but it didn't work. "I'm not interested."

Collin snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Collin," Doyle said with a half-hearted scowl. "Bodie is totally wrong for me. First off, he's a CI5 agent. Second, he's arrogant. Third, he's bossy. Fourth, sceptical-"

"He's also gorgeous, and you haven't been laid since Gavin left." Collin drained the rest of his coffee and placed the empty mug on the table. "Seduce him, love. You're dazzling. He won't be able to resist. He'll thank you for it. Hell, I'll thank you for it because you'll stop being so snippety and moody all the time."

"What? I am not snippety and moody."

Collin arched a brow.

Doyle sighed. "He investigated me, you know. Behind my back."

Understanding softened Collin's eyes. "Well, he _is_ a detective... agent... whatever," he waved a hand around in the air, "and you _do_ have a suspicious client. I wouldn't beat him up too badly over that, Ray."

Doyle considered his friend's words. "You're right. I got upset because it was Bodie, and now he knows things about me. If I only thought of him as just a CI5 agent, that would be one thing, but I don't."

"What do you think of him as?"

"He's bloody gorgeous. I'm attracted to him, and not just physically. He's somebody I could be with." Doyle sat back in his chair and tilted his head. "He's smart. Has a very odd sense of humour... but I like it. Then there's this look he gets in his eyes sometimes, like there's something deep down inside his soul that he's a little sad about. A yearning for something he's lost."

"Oh, dear," Collin said with a sympathetic smile. "You're falling for him, aren't you?"

"Feel like I am, mate. But it's bloody confusing. Find myself falling in love with him, but I'm not sure I want to. After what Gavin did to me, I swore I'd never get seriously involved with a man again."

Collin smiled warmly. "Listen to me, love. Stop over-analysing the situation and go for it. See what happens."

Doyle pressed his lips together for a second, then said, "I don't want to get hurt."

"Nobody does. But sometimes it's worth taking that chance to find the love of your life."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Doyle shifted his gaze away from his best friend, not sure how to answer.

"Come on, Ray," Collin said softly. "What are you going to do with the sexy Mr Bodie?"

"Don't know. The next move is up to him, if there is a next move in this... situation. He was quite upset with me for meeting with Arthur. Have tried talking to him about my abilities, but Bodie doesn't believe in them. He isn't even willing to consider the possibility that the paranormal can coexist alongside what he believes is normal, and that some of us can live in both those worlds."

"Is he coming to your house again tonight?"

"No, but he did call earlier with a list of dos and don'ts – don't go here, don't go there, don't do this, don't do that." Doyle chuckled. "For a list of dos and don'ts, it sure as hell was skimpy on the dos. He says these rules are for my safety. Says he's being cautious because he thinks Arthur may be bent on revenge."

"That's what Bodie says. What do you say?"

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sort out what he knew, from what he thought, from what he sensed. Opening his eyes, he said. "On one hand, there's Arthur, who has dreams of killing people who actually turn up dead."

"That would certainly freak me out," Collin said.

"Agreed. Then he came to my house and tried to strangle me."

"Not exactly the actions of an innocent man."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. When Arthur realised I'd set him up, he went bonkers."

"Ray," Collin said, his green eyes clouded with worry. "This does not sound good. Arthur could be a homicidal maniac, and now he's furious with you."

Doyle nodded. "Know it looks bad, really I do. But I also trust in my instincts. Always have, and they've never led me astray."

"What about Gavin?"

"They were briefly blinded by love?" Doyle smirked and shrugged. "Look, I know there's plenty of evidence pointing Arthur as the killer, but I have to believe there's another explanation."

Collin frowned and he looked sceptical. "Perhaps your subconscious simply cannot accept you could know a man who could commit murder."

"Maybe. Christ, I just feel terribly helpless, stuck in the middle of all this, and I don't even know what _this_ is. I feel like I need to do something, take some kind of action. If Bodie would just acknowledge my abilities and take advantage of them, perhaps I'd be able to help."

Collin nodded a few times. "You need to bring him around, show him what you want, on your terms. Find a way to make him listen to you and take you seriously."

"Oh, sure, and while I'm at it I'll cure world hunger," Doyle said in frustration.

Reaching across the table, Collin lightly squeezed Doyle's hand. "Don't give up, love. You'll think of something."

***

With a small groan, Bodie eased himself down into his chair at CI5 headquarters, a copy of the dream log in his hand. His nose hurt like hell, his muscles ached from last night's tussle with Arthur, and the fingerprints the lab had got off the diary had careened him into a dead end.

To top it all off, he'd awakened that morning on Doyle's sofa with a killer erection and had refused to give in to the urge to toss himself off. To pass the time and take his mind off sex, Bodie had folded the blankets, and made himself some toast and a cup of coffee. By the time he'd cleaned up his mess, his body had begun to cooperate.

Murphy appeared beside Bodie's desk and slid into the extra chair. "Aww, mate, what's wrong? You look like you could use a hug." His partner smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.

"Bugger off." Bodie chuckled and gave his partner a playful shove. He picked up the dream log then tossed it back down on his desk. "Lots of prints on front and back covers. Problem is, from the time it was manufactured to the time it was purchased, too many people had their hands on it. Bottom line, the covers are a mess."

Murphy scratched at his chin with his fingers, his brow furrowed in thought. "What about inside, on the pages?"

Bodie leant back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "Most prints were incomplete or too vague to read. There were one or two, though. Ran those through the database. No hits, but..."

Folding his hands over his lean belly, Murphy said, "That _but_ sounds promising."

"It is." Bodie grinned and leant closer to his partner. "One of the prints matched that one we found on the broken wine bottle. The other print had no matches."

"Well, we've placed the owner of the dream log at the scene of the alley murder. That's good work, that is." Murphy smiled.

 _Not really,_ Bodie thought. If Doyle hadn't told him about the broken bottle in Arthur's dream, he wouldn't have gone poking around that alley looking for one.

Since the implications of what that meant challenged every belief he'd ever had, Bodie let it go for now.

Murphy's gaze flicked over Bodie's face. "You okay? You took a nasty hit last night."

Bodie shrugged. "I'm fine. My revenge will come when we put this bastard away." Handing Murphy an extra copy of the dream log, he said, "This log's a mess, really hard to read. It's going to take some time to decipher." After checking his watch, Bodie pushed away from his desk and stood up. "See you tomorrow, mate."

"Where you heading off to?"

Looking around to make sure they were alone in the room, Bodie said, "Going to football tonight. I've just enough time to clean up, pick up me date, and get down to the ground."

Murphy sat straight up and his jaw dropped. "You got tickets to the match tonight? Those are bloody impossible to get. Who'd you have to sleep with to get them?"

Bodie smirked and cocked an eyebrow. "A gentleman never tells."

"Hate to break it to you, mate, but you're no gentleman." With a laugh, Murphy jumped out of his seat when Bodie took a swat at him. When he was out of reach he said, "Oh, come on, do tell."

Bodie lowered his voice. "Doyle." When he saw Murphy open his mouth to speak, Bodie quickly cut him off. "I didn't sleep with him. He called earlier to invite me."

"Think that's a good idea? There'll be hell to pay if Cowley finds out."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bodie glared at his partner. "Yeah, well, he's not going to, is he."

Murphy glared right back."You know me better than that, Bodie."

Bodie released a long breath. "Yeah. Sorry, mate."

"You think Doyle's on the level? That he really can see people's dreams."

"No." Bodie rubbed his jaw then shook his head. "Not really. But Doyle believes it, and... Oh, hell, I don't know what to think anymore. He's an intelligent man, but I don't get how he can believe that he 'sees' dreams."

Murphy leant a hip against his own desk. "What do you think?"

Bodie shrugged. "Guesswork? Intuition? The ability to read people well? Lies? Shit." He ran a hand over the top of his head. "I don't know. I just have a really hard time believing in all that hocus-pocus crap."

Snatching up his copy of the dream log, Bodie folded the papers and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Not only was Doyle the key to the investigation, but he'd affected Bodie as well. Intrigued him in a way no man ever had. And as pushy and bossy as Doyle was sometimes, Bodie liked him, liked being with him, liked the sound of his husky voice, and the spark of mischief in those exotic green eyes.

***

Doyle opened his front door expecting to see Bodie standing there. Instead a tall, dark-haired man stood waiting on his front steps.

"May I help you?" Doyle asked.

"Mr Doyle? My name is Scott Williams. So sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you."

"What about?" Doyle asked, curious.

"I have important information concerning one of your clients," Williams replied, his voice pitched low. "May I come in? I assure you it won't take long."

With a quick glance at his watch, Doyle noted that he still had enough time before Bodie was to pick him up.

"Okay. But you'll have to be quick about it."

"Certainly."

Closing the front door, he escorted Williams to his office. When they were both seated, Doyle said, "You have something to tell me about a client?"

"Yes. This is very... difficult for me."

Williams's dark hair was combed back slick against his skull, making it impossible not to notice the man's fine bone structure and intelligent blue eyes. He had that look about him, that money look. Doyle saw it easily, it was all there in the way the man held himself, chin slightly raised, eyes gazing at Doyle straight on, then flicking away to peruse the room as though taking some kind of inventory.

"Difficult?" Doyle asked. "In what way?"

Williams ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "It's an acquaintance of mine. Someone I'm rather fond of. He told me he's been coming to see you. He's been behaving rather strangely for the past few months and when I asked him about it..."

Doyle's stomach did a little flip. Even though he suspected who Williams was talking about, Doyle still had to ask, "Who is your friend?"

Williams gave him a very odd smile. "Arthur."

A million thoughts clashed inside Doyle's brain. He waited a moment while his heartbeat returned to normal then said, "In what way has he been behaving strangely?"

Williams lounged back into the cushions of the sofa, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I'd prefer not to go into great detail," he insisted. "Arthur and I had a lengthy discussion. He explained he'd run somewhat afoul of the law."

"It's true. Did he tell you the police want him for questioning?"

"Yes. That's why I'm here." Williams paused for a moment, appearing to gather his thoughts. He took a deep breath before slowly saying, "Arthur is not capable of murder. Believe me when I say he simply is not. He told me about the dreams, and how he was so troubled over them that he sought your help." He arched a slim eyebrow. "He should have come to me instead." Sitting a little straighter, Williams narrowed his eyes at Doyle. "Are you on the level, Mr Doyle? Can you really do what you claim?"

"Yes."

Pinning Doyle with a cold stare, Williams said, "You haven't helped him."

"I urged him to see a therapist, but he refused. There's only so much I can do." Doyle hated that it sounded like an excuse, but the fact was, unless Arthur came forward, there really wasn't anything Doyle could do.

Standing, Williams said, "I want you to tell the police they've got the wrong man, Mr Doyle."

Doyle pushed himself to his feet. "I think you should talk to the police about this. There's nothing-"

"I don't want to become involved."

"If Arthur talked to you, you _are_ involved."

"Arthur is a very powerful man. He has much to lose if he becomes entangled in accusations of murder. There's been enough turmoil since his father died last year. Tell the police to leave him alone. I must be going." Williams left the office and walked to the front door, Doyle right behind him.

"Wait, Mr Williams." Doyle hoped to delay the man, knowing that Bodie should be arriving any second now and then the agent could have a chat with Williams. "Please, talk to the authorities. If Arthur is innocent, then he can clear his name. You do think he's innocent, don't you?"

Once Williams was outside on the steps he stopped, turned and addressed Doyle. "I assure you, Mr Doyle, the only thing Arthur is guilty of is writing down some nightmares. That is not a crime. If those dreams resemble actual murders, it's purely coincidental."

Walking down the short red brick path, Williams opened the wooden gate. Doyle followed him out onto the pavement. "Mr Williams, Arthur attacked me, he resisted arrest. He accosted two CI5 agents. If he has nothing to hide, he should turn himself in."

Scott Williams ignored Doyle and began walking away. Over his shoulder, he called, "Thank you for your time, Mr Doyle. Good-bye." 

The fog had crawled in once more, pressing against the streets, cooling the air. To ward off the chill, Doyle slid his hands into his jeans front pockets and hunched over a little. The light t-shirt he wore wasn't nearly enough to stave off the bite of the breeze blowing up his street.

A few cars down from Doyle's house, just in front of a multi-coloured Volkswagen campervan, Williams opened the door and slid behind the wheel of a pristine, very expensive-looking sports car.

Doyle hurried to get closer. As Williams cranked the wheel and rolled quickly away, Doyle leaned around the VW, focused hard on the plate gracing the rear bumper of the gold Porsche 911, and committed what he saw to memory.

***

"You did get the registration number?" Bodie asked, pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor of Doyle's lounge. From the moment he'd walked into the house and Doyle had told him he'd met a man who claimed to know Arthur, Bodie was certain this was the break in the case he'd been waiting for.

"I did. But..."

Bodie stopped and turned to look at Doyle. "But?"

"Well, it was dark... and a tad foggy... and Williams did pull away rather quickly. I'm not certain I got all the numbers correct-"

"Just give me the bloody numbers, Doyle," Bodie snapped. "Don't need your _psychic_ voodoo for that, do you?"

Silence.

A moment later, Doyle stood up, rattled off the number and left the room. 

Using his RT, Bodie contacted Murphy and related all the information he had on Williams. After he signed off, he blew out a long breath, calming himself before going in search of Doyle. He had to check through a few rooms first before finally finding him at the back of the house in the kitchen. Doyle was sitting on a chair, holding a glass of orange juice in one hand while he used the fingers of the other to trace small circles on the table's scarred wooden top. His forehead was creased with a frown, and he looked angry and a little hurt.

Bodie's heart twisted with emotions.

This case was really getting to him. Two people were dead, perhaps more. And everything was so elusive; even things that should have been solid – such as a simple vehicle registration plate – seemed to slip through his fingers. It still irked him that Arthur had got clean away. But that was not Doyle's fault, it was his. He had no right to take his frustrations out on him.

Sitting down opposite Doyle, Bodie rested his arms on the table and folded his hands together. "Look, Ray, sorry I yelled. I know you did your best."

Doyle glanced up, eyes raking over Bodie before giving a slight nod. He then leant back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "I think Williams was lying... about who he was."

Bodie leaned forward a little. "Go on," he urged.

"Claimed to be a close friend of Arthur's, that he's innocent. He wanted me to tell the authorities to leave Arthur alone. I didn't have to touch Williams to know something was off."

"What do you think?" Bodie asked.

"I think..." Doyle paused, seeming to think a moment, then, "I think he does know Arthur. Might even know him quite well. But I don't think he has Arthur's best interest at heart. In fact..."

Bodie nodded when Doyle looked at him.

"It felt like Williams was trying to protect himself. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it does. And it's very possible. Okay, listen, Ray," Bodie said, his tone soft. "I want you to write everything down that you remember."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now."

Getting to his feet, Doyle rummaged around in a kitchen drawer and produced a pad and pen. Five minutes later he was finished and sliding the pad across the table toward Bodie.

"Ta, mate. This is great." Bodie folded the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket alongside his RT. "You ready to go?"

Doyle looked at him, his eyebrows rising. "Eh? Go where?"

"To the match, where else?"

After hesitating a moment, Doyle asked, "You still want to go?"

"Course... don't you?"

"Yeah, I do." Doyle grinned. He got to his feet and Bodie followed him out of the kitchen.

Once they were in Bodie's car and driving down the street, he gave a quick glance Doyle's way and said, "You do know Arsenal will prevail tonight and your sorry-arsed Chelsea team will head home in disgrace with their tails between their legs."

"Not bloody likely, mate," Doyle said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Care to place a small wager on that?" Bodie turned to him and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'd be a fool to bet with you." Doyle laughed. "Especially since it appears that a victory on your part may involve some sort of sexual escapades."

With a grin, Bodie said, "You'd be right. But if you're so sure Chelsea are going to win, then you have nothing to lose."

"I'm no fool. I only make wagers on sure things. There's just enough of an outside chance that your team could squeak by to make me into a chump for taking your bet."

Bodie tipped back his head and laughed. It didn't really matter who won tonight, because as soon as the match was over, one way or another he was going to have his wicked way with Doyle.

***

Doyle huddled in his seat, watching the light fog shift around above the stadium, softening the ground's bright lights to bursts of grey fuzz.

Curling his hands into fists inside his jacket pockets, he hunkered down a little more, waiting for Bodie to return with more hot tea, hoping Bodie remembered to double the sugar in his again.

The game wasn't going well – not from Bodie's perspective anyway. Doyle couldn't help himself, he grinned brightly. Poor Bodie. Chelsea was defeating Arsenal – just as Doyle'd known they would. Bodie was trying to be stoic about it, but every time a player on Doyle's team made a good pass, Bodie would grunt. Whenever an Arsenal player slipped up, Bodie would remain silent and sullen through the crowd's cheers.

Watching the match was good, but being with Bodie was fantastic. Sitting next to him, so close their thighs would touch, Doyle would feel the electricity charge through Bodie's strong, healthy body. He felt a connection with Bodie that he hadn't felt with a man for a very long time – perhaps never.

Doyle felt light and happy and couldn't stop grinning like a fool. _You're falling, aren't you_ … Collin's words came back to him.

No, not really. Not on purpose, anyway… Okay, maybe. A little. Okay, maybe a lot.

When they'd pulled into a parking space a few streets away from the stadium, Bodie had shut off the engine, but instead of getting out right away, he'd grabbed hold of Doyle and kissed him. Long and deep and wet, tongues sliding together, breath mingling. Doyle had closed his eyes and envisioned being wrapped in Bodie's arms like this night after night after night...

Doyle could almost see the triumphant gleam in Collin's eyes. _Oh, yes, mate, you_ are _falling for him..._

Bloody hell... he was, quickly and deeply.

When he'd pulled back from the kiss, he'd licked his lips, and revelled in the Bodie flavour that still lingered there. "If you don't feed me, I'm going to pass out." Doyle had grinned.

"No worries, mate. I got it covered." Bodie had given him a crooked smile. "Tea and meat pie?"

"Sounds smashing."

Bodie had leant forward again, raised Doyle's face with his knuckle, and kissed him until he could barely breathe. "You ready to go?" Bodie had whispered against his mouth.

"Uh... okay?" Doyle had blinked a few times, getting his bearings. Bodie had made his head spin.

With a laugh, Bodie had got out of the car and Doyle had followed. As they'd made their way towards the entrance, he couldn't help but admire Bodie's muscular body and the effortless way he moved. Bodie was sweet and charming and fun, and Doyle couldn't help it, he let himself fall just a little-

"Raylove! Hello!"

Doyle shook his head, abruptly ending his reverie. Lifting his gaze, he realised there was a man standing at the railing in front of him.

Shit, Gavin. "Gav?"

Well, if that just didn't put a damper on the evening. The smile slid from Doyle's face and the effervescent tingle in his body suddenly turned to an uncomfortable cold shock. "What are you doing here?" Doyle asked.

Gavin snorted a laugh. "Same as you. I suppose. Watching football."

"You don't like football."

Running long fingers through his perfectly styled brown hair, he said casually, "Tastes change. Beside, me boyfriend's uncle has season tickets. You look really good, Raylove-"

"Don't call me that," Doyle snapped. "I hated it when we were together, and I hate it now."

"Come on, now, lighten up." Gavin grinned, showing white teeth and deep dimples that had so captivated Doyle back when he'd been trusting and naive enough to fall for the bastard.

Sliding under the railing, Gavin plopped into Bodie's vacant seat and curled an arm around Doyle. He tried to move away, but Gavin gripped his shoulder tighter, holding him in place.

"I'm going to win, you know," Gavin said lightly as his fingers dug painfully into Doyle's shoulder. "My boyfriend's uncle is a solicitor-"

"I don't care." Doyle shifted harder and raised a fist. "Move your arm or I'll move it for you."

Gavin let go of Doyle but didn't make any show of leaving. "How much do you figure that old relic is worth?"

Doyle glared into his calculating grey eyes. "Doesn't matter. My gran left that house to me-"

"To _us_ , Raylove," Gavin corrected. "She left it to us. I want the house or half its value in cash, or I'll keep you tied up in court for so long it'll bankrupt you. You'll be forced to sell it. Either way, I get what's coming to me."

_He only wished._

"It's my home, you sodding moron. I live and work there. You don't deserve a shilling."

"Oh, my heart's breaking for you, Raylove, really it is."

Doyle glared. "Even you can't be so bloody mean as to chuck me out of my own place. Tell you what. If I ever sell, I'll think about giving you a few bob for past services rendered." Doyle eyed him with a cold look. "But you try anything, you'll be sorry."

Tapping his fingers against the side of Doyle's face, Gavin said, "That's not good enough."

With a jerk, Doyle moved away from him, anger causing his body to shake.

"Is there a problem here?"

Doyle nearly jumped right out of his seat at the sound of Bodie's voice.

Bodie flicked a glance into his eyes, and whatever he saw there made his mouth flatten and his jaw tighten. Without a word, he slowly directed that hard gaze at Gavin.

Gavin shot a quick glance from Bodie to Doyle, then back again. "No trouble, friend," he said lightly. "Just saying hello."

"Try saying good-bye, _friend._ "

Gavin stood and dipped back under the railing. With a small grin at Doyle, he said, "Bye, Raylove. Remember what I said." With a quick glance at Bodie, Gavin swivelled on his heel and sauntered away.

Sliding into his seat, Bodie looked at Doyle. "Who was that arsehole?"

Taking his cup, Doyle replied, "You read my file. Surely you can guess."

"Your ex."

Doyle sipped the tea, sighing as the hot liquid began to warm him from the inside out. Raising the cup in his hand in Bodie's direction, he mumbled, "Thanks."

"What did he want?"

"Money." His eyes lowered and he tried not to think about how much it was going to cost to hire a solicitor to fight his ex-boyfriend. When it looked like Bodie wanted to pursue the topic, Doyle said, "I don't want to talk about Gavin right now. He's a blight on me brain."

Bodie gazed into his eyes for a long time, then nodded.

Out on the pitch, somebody apparently did something spectacular. The crowd jumped to its feet and cheers went up all around the ground. 

After taking another sip of his tea, Bodie looked over at him. The glint of humour had returned to his blue eyes. "Either Chelsea did something really good," he said, "or Arsenal did something really bad."

Doyle smiled, forcing himself to return his attention to the game. Across the field, he checked the time on the scoreboard.

"Would you look at that," he said, forcing Gavin's threats out of his head. "Time's running out, mate, there is no way Arsenal can win."

Bodie swallowed a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth before he spoke. "You'd be surprised. We've come from further behind than this."

"Not this time."

"Bet?"

Doyle looked at the scoreboard again and nodded. "Bet."

Switching his cup to his left hand, Bodie offered him his right. Doyle took it, sealing the wager.

"If I win..." Doyle drawled, then corrected himself. "I mean, _when_ I win, you let me do a painting of you."

Bodie thought about it a moment. "Okay. Fair enough," he said, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "And if I win-"

"Which you won't," Doyle assured him with a cheeky smile.

Bodie pursed his lips and seemed to assess him for few seconds, eyes slowly sliding down Doyle's body.

At the base of his spine, a sweet, tingling vibration began to make its way through his body to the parts that hadn't been vibrated for quite some time.

Leaning toward Doyle, Bodie whispered in his ear, "Did I mention I have a very big, wrought-iron bed?"

Doyle's eyes drifted closed and he caught his breath. Every muscle in his body began to go limp and quivery.

"If I win..." Bodie whispered again, slowly, his breath sending a quiver of excitement all across Doyle's skin. " _When_ I win... you... naked... on my bed... stretched out... arms above your head, holding on tight to that wrought-iron... while I fuck you long and hard."

***

The crowd's moans and groans still echoed inside Doyle's head as they made their way with the surge of dejected fans out of the stadium.

No painting Bodie. Not tonight, anyway.

How the hell had they done it? How the hell had Arsenal beat Chelsea?

Unable to think past the erotic mental image Bodie had created in Doyle's head, he walked along next to him. Every time he blinked, he could see himself stretched out on that bed, see Bodie bending over him, feel him buried deep inside.

When they were finally outside, Bodie grabbed hold of Doyle's wrist. He tugged him along the side of the building and around the corner to a secluded little alcove where no one could see them. 

Pushing Doyle back against the brick wall, Bodie took his mouth in a hard kiss. With the muscular body covering him, Doyle felt completely enveloped by a powerful sexual energy. Bodie shifted, rolling his hips into Doyle's and he couldn't miss the hard erection brushing against his own.

"Won't hold you to it," Bodie breathed against Doyle's lips. "I want to, but I won't."

If Doyle could have formed some sort of coherent sentence, he would have, but as it was, he was too paralysed with pleasure to utter a single word.

"The bet," Bodie murmured. "Was mostly a joke. We don't have to... won't hold you to it," he said again before he kissed Doyle.

"That's very... considerate of you."

Bodie backed away a step. "Come on. I'll take you home."

Reaching out an arm, Doyle snagged Bodie by the back of the neck and pulled him close and panted against his open mouth, "A man honours his bets, Bodie. I'm holding you to yours."

Bodie froze, searching Doyle's eyes. Before the man could say anything, Doyle gave him a kiss that told him in no uncertain terms just how much he wanted Bodie.

Somehow, they made it down the street and into the car. Cranked the engine... moved through road junctions, by stop signs, people walking... green light, amber light, red light. It all became a slow blur to Doyle.

Every nerve ending he had was on edge. His body ached in anticipation. His skin felt sensitive under his clothing and he couldn't get past what it would feel like to finally have Bodie's hands sliding all over him.

Finally, the car stopped and he heard a door slam. Then Bodie was there, opening his door, tugging him out. Wordlessly they moved into the building and up to the second floor. Somehow they got inside.

As soon as the flat door closed, Bodie pressed him up against it, his mouth warm and open on Doyle's. Fingers moved to unzip his jacket, hands slid under the sweater he wore. First Bodie's thumbs found his taut nipples, then his mouth and tongue, and Doyle nearly collapsed from the pleasure of it.

In the darkness of the flat, Bodie guided Doyle to his bedroom. He yanked at Doyle's clothing and it was soon gone. Once again Doyle felt hands on his naked skin, touching him, not gently, not roughly, but everywhere, making him groan loudly.

Slowly, Bodie lowered him to the bed, pushing Doyle's legs wide, licking along his erection... long strokes, wet and hot.

"Don't stop," Doyle panted. "Christ, don't stop."

He arched his back and Bodie licked along his length again, taking the head into his mouth and sucking gently.

"Bodie..." Doyle implored, begging for release.

Bodie moved up, pinching Doyle's nipples with strong, warm fingers, exciting them into hard peaks. His mouth covered one, and sucked, teasing Doyle with tongue and teeth, until he moaned.

Doyle was totally naked, while Bodie was still fully clothed. Why that turned him on even more, he couldn't have said, but his palms began to itch in anticipation of touching Bodie's skin.

His fingers tugged at Bodie's clothing and in moments he was naked as well, and cradled between Doyle's thighs. He ran his hands over Bodie's muscular body, his smooth, supple skin. Against his belly, he felt the ridges of Bodie's stomach muscles, the tease of hair around his navel and groin.

Gliding his hand along the flat plane of Bodie's torso, he found the silky, damp tip of Bodie's penis. He slid his hand down the shaft and curled his fingers around it... so long, so hard, so slick.

"Want you in me," Doyle breathed. "Now."

Bodie leant over him and slapped at the bedside cabinet. An empty glass and magazine went flying before he came back with a bottle in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

Going up on his elbows, Doyle nuzzled Bodie's cheek, then kissed his way down Bodie's neck and licked at a scar on his collarbone. "Please, Bodie. Need you." He moaned and flopped back down on the bed when he felt a hand slip down to stroke slowly up and down his cock.

Letting go of Doyle's erection, Bodie cradled his head in both hands and kissed him hard and deep before reaching for the lube. He rubbed some of the slippery cream on his fingers before pushing lightly against Doyle's opening. 

Doyle couldn't help it, he released a sharp, needy sound, and bucked his hips up. Wanting more. Wanting to feel Bodie's fingers enter him. Wanting to feel Bodie's cock moving deep within him.

Bodie worked in the finger and then another and Doyle's entire body shuddered. Reaching up one hand, he pulled Bodie down and took his mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss. Doyle's cock was achingly hard against his hip and he didn't think he could wait much longer.

"Now, Bodie," Doyle gasped.

Bodie snatched up the lube again, squeezed a large amount onto his hand and coated himself with it. Doyle opened his thighs wide in invitation and Bodie knelt between them. He lifted one of Doyle's legs, positioned the head of his cock at Doyle's entrance and slowly pushed all the way into him.

"Oh, God," Doyle groaned. "Good."

At first, Bodie did nothing. His breathing was laboured, as though he were holding himself in rigid control. Doyle felt the movement of his muscles against his body and he ached for Bodie to move inside him.

Then Bodie did, torturing Doyle further, pleasuring him until Doyle could no longer hold back his moans of want and desire.

Nuzzling and kissing Doyle's neck, Bodie breathed, "Christ, you're amazing."

Raising his arm, Doyle slid his fingers into Bodie's hair. He held Bodie's head to him while he closed his eyes and did nothing but feel the two of them together, treasuring the closeness he hadn't felt for so awfully long.

Turning his brain off, Doyle focused on the slide of the cock inside him, in and out, bringing him closer, and closer still.

Bodie urged Doyle's legs wider, placing kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, down his chest. Capturing a nipple in his mouth, Bodie sucked it hard, bit it until the pleasure was too intense and Doyle began to buck. His own loud cries mingled with Bodie's harsh pants. He tilted his hips... there. Almost there.

Reaching above his head, Doyle stretched out his naked body, arching his back, and grasping the iron rails of the headboard with both hands.

"Fuck me, Bodie," Doyle urged. "Hard."

Bodie slammed into him again and again, the sound of his lover's breathing harsh and rasping. Pulling back, Bodie thrust in, this time more slowly, so slowly that Doyle felt every inch, staying his orgasm, keeping it out of his reach until he growled in frustration.

Suddenly it was too much, and his body burst with sweet delight, the rush of pleasure flooding him, easing his taut muscles, bathing his skin in sensual heat as he clenched around Bodie, and clenched again.

Bodie grunted a satisfied sound, then shifted position, grasping Doyle's hips in his large hands, and pulling Doyle hard to him. Bodie's mouth opened over his, tongue thrusting deeply inside and he came. Doyle felt it, hot and thick and slick, coating his passage and seeping out of his hole.

Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie and hung on, never wanting to let go, never wanting this to end, this connection, this closeness that he had never felt with another person – not psychically, not physically, not emotionally.

Their bodies pressed close, their hearts slammed against each other's, their stomachs moved in and out, together in time, their sweat and Doyle's cum coating their skin. Sex was messy. Sex was fun and intense. Sex with Bodie was glorious.

For a while, neither of them spoke, only breathed, and recovered, and savoured.

Doyle kissed Bodie's damp brow, ran his fingertips lightly through the soft wavy hair. Lifting his head, Bodie moved his hand up and slid his thumb along Doyle's jaw. They grinned into each other's eyes.

Then they laughed, too sated to speak, too amazed by what had happened between them, its power, its glory.

They kissed again, tenderly, and he felt the curve of Bodie's smile against his lips. There should be words to define this elusive and staggering moment, Doyle thought. Words like love and forever and you and me, and he wanted to say them. For the first time in memory he wanted to say them so badly, holding them back made his throat hurt.

A loud thumping suddenly interrupted their intimate atmosphere. "What's that?" Doyle asked.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Bodie frowned. "Shit," he snarled. "Someone's at me front door."

"Perhaps they'll go away-" Doyle was interrupted by more banging. "Or not."

"Sorry," Bodie said, and Doyle could see in his eyes that he meant it. "Give me a minute."

Pushing off Doyle, Bodie swivelled into a sitting position, splendid in his nakedness. Reaching for the blanket that had fallen on the floor, he used it to cover Doyle, then leant down and gave him a kiss.

As Bodie yanked on jeans and moved away, Doyle's sensual world closed in around him and collapsed. A foreboding feeling hit him hard causing a shiver to rush through his body. The heat cooled, the colours dulled, the words he had so desperately wanted to say faded like invisible ink on a page. 

***

Flipping the front door open, Bodie frowned as he confronted his brother.

"Sorry, already gave at the office."

Robert scowled and pushed past Bodie to enter the lounge. "This couldn't wait," he said, casting a glance at the furniture and decor, most of which had been purchased at flea markets. "I see CI5 still doesn't pay its agents a living wage. Christ, Bodie, why don't you get yourself a real job."

"Careful, or you'll hurt me decorator's feelings."

Spying the guitar case standing in the corner by the television, Robert asked, "You still play?"

"When the spirit moves me. What about you? Still bringing tears to people's eyes with you-"

"Nope. Gave it up years ago."

Closing the door, Bodie turned on the lamp next to the crammed bookcase, illuminating his brother's ever-present glower. "It's one in the bloody morning, Robert." And his blood still hummed from sex with Doyle. Somewhere between the bed and the front door, his body had recovered, and he was ready for another round. More than ready.

Robert turned to face him. "I read Malone's diary."

Bodie's brows shot up. "How the hell did you get a copy-"

"I want to talk to Doyle," Robert interrupted.

Before he could stop himself, Bodie cast a quick glance at the closed bedroom door.

Robert's gaze followed, then he turned and walked to the window that faced the street. "Get him."

Bodie's blood heated a few degrees. "You can talk to him tomorrow. Now get out."

Over his shoulder, Robert said, "If you don't get him, I will."

Bodie made a move toward his brother at the same time the bedroom door opened. Both men swivelled to face Doyle as he walked into the room.

"Fighting over me, lads?" Doyle gave the visitor his attention. "What's going on?"

Bodie moved quickly to put himself between Doyle and his brother. Doyle had got dressed and tamed down that unruly hair slightly, but there was no mistaking the soft gleam in his eyes, the flush of his skin, his kiss swollen lips. Doyle'd just had satisfying sex, and it showed. Not that Bodie wasn't proud that he'd been the man to do the job, but he hadn't planned on exposing Doyle so blatantly to another man's scrutiny immediately afterwards.

He suddenly felt like he needed to protect Doyle, make it clear he wasn't just some casual lay he'd brought home. But before he could say anything Robert spoke up.

"I'm Robert, Will's brother."

"Doyle." Glancing quickly from one brother to the other, Doyle's brow furrowed. "Don't look at all alike, do you."

"Thank God," Bodie mumbled under his breath.

"Prick," Robert responded.

"Pillock," Bodie muttered. "Now that we've dispatched with the pleasantries, why are you here, Robert, and what the hell do you want?"

***

"So, you wanted to talk to me?" Doyle lifted his chin and looked directly into Robert's sharp hazel eyes. As the man narrowed his gaze on him, Doyle couldn't help but notice that he was absolutely gorgeous, in a dark, menacing and complex sort of way. 

"There was a murder in Totteridge a month ago," Robert said. "The details match almost exactly one of the dreams in the journal."

Bodie's response was immediate and furious. "Tell me how the hell you got a copy of that diary."

Robert only flicked a glance at his brother. "Connections."

It was obvious to Doyle that Robert was used to being in charge. He could feel that Robert was holding himself in check, keeping his emotions, his words, perhaps even his thoughts under rigid control. There was anger in him, possibly rage. Here was a man who was all work and no play. To him, the world was a very serious place.

Clearing his throat, Doyle asked, "Which dream?"

"Why do you care, Robert?" Bodie asked as he pulled on a t-shirt that'd been lying on the back of the sofa. "Was the victim rich? Famous, perhaps? Why aren't the police handling it?"

Robert's stark eyes followed his brother's every move. "The victim was a personal friend of mine," he said quietly. "His name was Eldon Pratt. He worked for me as head gardener at my house in Totteridge. I don't know what the police are doing, and I don't care." His eyes turned colder, if that was possible. "I want this murderer, and I am going to get him."

Before Doyle could stop himself, he reached out and touched Robert's arm, then snatched his hand back, half expecting to see burn marks on his fingertips. But the brief contact had been enough. Robert’s guilt and remorse had filtered through his wall of defences, and Doyle had picked them up. So much anger... so much pain...

"I'm sorry," Doyle stammered, as Robert turned the full force of his gaze on him. "What do you want me to do?"

Robert took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to him. Doyle's fingers trembled slightly when he looked down at the uneven scribbles on the photocopied page. He didn't need to read it to know exactly what it said.

_I'm on a boat. It's very lonely out there on the water, nobody around on the flat blue sea. Then I see another boat and a man with his line in the water, fishing. I come alongside. There is suddenly a weapon in my hand, and I point it at him. For a split second he looks at me, his expression curious, oblivious to what I'm about to do. Then I see it in his eyes. He knows. He looks very sad. For no reason at all, I kill him. One shot, that's all it takes. He falls to the deck, dropping the fishing pole. His boat drifts away, out to sea, and is gone._

Doyle nodded slowly. "I remember it. Arthur came to me about it a month or so ago. I saw the dream very vividly, but..." Something itched at the back of his brain. "What time of day was your friend killed?"

"Evening. He was heading back after spending the day fishing."

"Something's wrong, then. The dream took place in broad daylight, while the victim was fishing."

"The diary doesn't actually say anything about the time of day," Bodie murmured, taking the page from Doyle's hand. Addressing his brother, he asked, "What kind of weapon was used?"

"Shotgun. Both barrels," Robert replied.

"That's not right either," Doyle rushed. "In the dream, it was a handgun of some kind. I saw it clearly."

Bodie placed a hand on Doyle's shoulder and shook his head. "Ray, I'm sure you think-"

"You don't believe me, do you?" Doyle stepped out of Bodie's touch and glared at him. "You don't believe I saw Arthur's dream. In fact, you don't believe I'm psychic at all."

Bodie lifted a shoulder, and pursed his lips, refusing to meet Doyle's gaze.

After what they'd shared together, Bodie _still_ didn't understand. The man still had no idea who Doyle was, what he was all about, what was important to him. Why the hell did Bodie have sex with him if he didn't understand Doyle and perhaps even thought he was unbalanced?

The betrayal Doyle felt made his chest squeeze and his throat tighten.

Turning to Robert, Doyle said, "Would you give me a lift home?"

Robert shot a quick look at his brother, then his eyes narrowed on Doyle. "Of course."

Bodie grabbed for Doyle's arm, but he pushed at Bodie and stepped away.

"Listen, Ray," Bodie said, "I can't just sacrifice evidence and logic for –"

"No," Doyle hissed. "Shut up, Bodie. I don't want to hear another word."

When he got to the front door, Doyle turned to face Bodie, hating the words he was about to say, but knowing he had to say them.

"I don't want to see you again. You and I live in different worlds. While I'm willing to give yours a try, you can't even see mine. And it's very apparent you don't want to."

Silently, Doyle walked away and trailed after Robert through the door, down the stairs and out to the street.

***

Laying his aching head back against the headrest, Doyle let the purr of the expensive car's engine lull his mind. When he felt his eyes burn with the threat of tears, he cursed and willed them away.

Robert shifted gears as they moved through a road junction. "When I talked to Will earlier he said something about a man coming to see you. A man who knows Arthur."

"Yes." Doyle cleared his throat, took a restorative breath and said, "Said his name was Scott Williams. Claimed to be a close friend of Arthur's. Also said something about him being powerful and that becoming involved in a scandal would ruin him."

"Anything else?"

"Said Arthur was under a lot of stress, that his father had died recently."

Robert seemed to mull this over for a moment. "What did Williams look like?"

Doyle described as much as he could about the man. "I got the vehicle registration number."

Checking the rear-view mirror, Robert changed lanes, then turned left. "Are you really psychic?"

"Yes, but only when I touch people, occasionally when I hold an object."

Pulling up in front of Doyle's house, Robert put the car in neutral, leant over and opened the glove compartment. "Here's a pen and paper. Write down the registration number and description of Williams's car."

As Doyle scribbled it all down, he said, "I've already given this to Bodie, but he told me..." He let his words drift off and lifted his eyes to Robert, who had a curious expression on his face.

When Robert took the paper from Doyle's hand, their fingers touched, and for an instant, an image blasted its way into his head.

"Robert?" Doyle said quietly. "You live in Totteridge. You don't happen to know anyone who drives a gold Porsche 911, who is close to a wealthy and powerful man named Arthur whose father died recently... do you?"

***

"Arthur?"

At the sound of his name, Arthur stumbled around to face his brother. Rubbing at his tired eyes, he tried to focus on Terence, but his vision wouldn't cooperate.

Terence stood a few feet away, more of a ghost than a man. Though Arthur couldn't see his brother's face clearly in the darkness of the hallway, the disapproval was plain enough in the man's voice.

Arthur's vision cleared a little, and he realised he was standing just outside his bedroom door. He suddenly couldn't remember if he was coming out, or going in. Couldn't remember what the time was, whether it was the middle of the night, or nearly dawn.

"Arthur?" Terence's voice was softer now, curious, concerned. "It's five-thirty in the morning. Are you ill?"

He shook his head, but that made his vision worse. Blinking, he tried desperately to see more clearly. "I'm fine. Just restless."

"Have you been out?"

Arthur frowned. Had he? Everything was all mixed up in his brain. Looking down, he saw that he wore a t-shirt, pyjama bottoms, and his feet were bare. "No. I've been asleep. Something woke me, I think."

"Another nightmare?"

He searched his memory. Yes, he'd been asleep, quite soundly, thanks to the sleeping pill Terence had given him earlier. However, no dreams, no nightmares had come. Still, something had awakened him, he was sure of it.

"No, not a nightmare," Arthur replied and rubbed his temples. "I've got to be in the city at ten o'clock, so I'm going to try to get a few more hours sleep."

In the shadows of the hallway, Terence nodded. He may have smiled, but Arthur was still too out of it to tell.

"We can talk later, if you like," Terence offered. "You sure you're okay?"

Turning the knob on his bedroom door, Arthur nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

Closing the door behind him, he went into his bathroom to use the toilet. He didn't turn on the light. The large window allowed the full moon to bathe the room in a cool, silvery glow. Flushing the toilet, he turned to wash his hands and tripped over something.

Crouching down, he examined the bundle on the tile floor. Instantly he recognized his old athletic shoes, a crumpled pair of jeans, and his favourite red sweater. Except the red from the pullover had somehow bled onto his jeans and shoes.

Arthur stared at the clothing for a moment, not quite comprehending what he was seeing. Letting the sweater drop from his shaking fingers, he held his palm in front of his face. His hand was sticky, and red. Blood. Fresh blood on his clothing.

Snatching up the nearest towel, he frantically wiped all traces of blood from his fingers and palms. He choked as though he were being strangled, frantic to breathe, gasping for air, air that failed to fill his lungs and relieve his suffering.

Not knowing what to think, how to feel, where to turn, he fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

"No," he sobbed. "No, no, no, not again. Please, God. Not _again_!"

He knew he should go to the police, tell them everything, at least what he knew, what he remembered. Except he didn't _remember_ anything. They'd laugh at him, or lock him up in a mental institution and throw away the key.

Unless, of course, he really was a murderer. Then the penalty would be far greater.

Arthur shook his head. No. _No!_ He was _not_ a killer. It didn't fit with the man he knew himself to be. He was as nice and as easygoing a bloke as anyone could be. He rarely got angry and when he did, he was pretty reasonable in sorting things out. And he'd never had psychotic dreams in the past.

Yet the nightmares... and the blood. He was confused and didn't know what was real from what was in his messed-up head.

No, he wouldn't go to the police. Not yet. Not until he knew what was wrong with him.

He forced himself to focus, to concentrate. Yes, there was a way. There was a way, but it would have to be a secret, and in the end, he would know the truth.

Feeling a sense of control he hadn't felt in months, Arthur rose to his feet and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Could he really be a psychotic murderer? He didn't used to think so, but if he was wrong, if it turned out he was a monster...

Slowly shuffling into his bedroom, he went to his bedside cabinet and pulled open the drawer. With his thumb, he eased aside a notebook and some papers to reveal the revolver, its silver barrel glinting in the moonlight.

Taking a deep breath, he held it in his lungs for a second before blowing it out past his lips. He slid the drawer closed and crawled between the cool sheets of his bed.

If it turned out he was a monster, he may not know how it had begun, but he definitely knew how it would end.

***

 

Bodie sat on his bed. His cold, empty, dishevelled bed. The bed that held the scent of seduction, and sex, and Doyle. Though morning light flooded the room, it did nothing to ease his unhappiness.

As long as he lived, he'd never forget the sight of Doyle reaching for those iron bars, lithe body stretching out beneath Bodie, and offering himself to Bodie with everything Doyle had.

Gazing down at the pillow where Doyle had laid his head, Bodie let his eyes wander over the light blue sheets and tousled navy bedspread. Funny how his bed had never seemed so big and lonely before.

Bodie had wanted Doyle there the whole night. Wanted Doyle under him again. Wanted the man bare-arsed over Bodie's favourite chair in the lounge, on his knees with Bodie's prick between his lips, on the settee straddling Bodie's lap. Hell, he wanted Doyle every way they could manage.

But Doyle had left the moment he'd got the chance, and it was all Bodie's fault.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if Doyle realised just how much he was asking of Bodie. It's not that he wasn't willing to change the beliefs of a lifetime, but that kind of change took time _and_ a desire to change. He still wasn't sure if psychic abilities such as Doyle's were real, or if they were just nonsense based on finely tuned intuition and lucky guesses.

Bodie used to think he knew the answer, however, since meeting Doyle, he wasn't so sure anymore. Yes, he'd seen Doyle do some interesting things. But seeing wasn't necessarily believing, and he wasn't as gullible as a lot of people were. It was hard to believe in those types of abilities without scientific data to prove them real.

 _I'm sorry, Ray._ His arms suddenly ached for Doyle to be in them again, his body ached to lose himself in him. Bodie hadn't felt this way about a man in a long time, well over two years. Yet even then, as much as he'd cared for that man, it didn't come close to what he felt for Doyle.

He needed to work it out with Doyle. Somehow. Get the man to see reason. They'd be okay if Doyle could just overcome his ridiculous attitude about being able to read people's minds and admit it was simply that he was very good at reading people.

As he gripped the papers in his fist, a sense of urgency prickled his brain. Not only did he need to change Doyle's thinking, Bodie needed to find a way to protect him as well.

It had taken him two hours to decipher the wretched handwriting on most of the pages in the dream diary, but when he finally did, his skin crawled and his heart went numb.

_He's beautiful, with his unruly curly hair and exotic looks, and stunning green eyes. He looks at me, and I can see the quality of his soul. He means well, wants to help me. How can he know what's in my heart. How can he know his trust is dangerously misplaced?_

_It's easy. He's so surprised, he doesn't struggle. The knife slides between his ribs like an oar through water. Blood gushes from the wound. He makes a sound in his throat and blinks up at me, so sad. So terribly sad, and disappointed, too._

_"Bye, my sweet Ray. Truth be told, I think you were my only friend."_

Bodie rubbed the back of his neck. Worry and fear tensed his muscles. He glanced at the bedside clock – ten thirty. It was Saturday, and he had the weekend ahead of him. Picking up the phone, he started to dial Doyle's number, then stopped. He had a better idea. Leaping off the bed, he set his plan in motion.

Just after three o'clock in the afternoon, Bodie knocked on Doyle's front door, but instead of being greeted by Doyle, he was met by his best friend. "Collin."

"Hello, Bodie," Collin said, arms crossing over his chest.

"I'd like a word with Ray, if I may."

"He's not here." 

When Collin attempted to close the door, Bodie put a hand out to stop it. "Do you know where he is, or when he'll be back?"

Bodie watched as Collin seemed to consider the question. Then after a long sigh, Collin said, "He went away for the weekend. To think. I'm here watering the plants for him."

"Look," Bodie said in his best grovelling voice. "I owe him an apology-"

"Damn right you do." 

"Can't deliver it, can I, if I don't know where he is."

Biting his lip, Collin gave Bodie the once over, then the tension seemed to leave his body and he opened the door a little more. "I'd love to tell you where he is, but I've been sworn to secrecy. If you show up there, he'll know I'm the one who ratted on him."

"I'll tell him I threatened to arrest you." Bodie arched a brow and gave a little smirk.

"You plan to be around for a while, don't you, Bodie." It wasn't a question. "As in, for decades."

Without hesitation, Bodie replied, "Yes."

Collin nodded. "Come in and sit for a minute. There's something you need to know." Once they were seated in the lounge, Collin continued, "Ray will not be happy about what I’m going to tell you, but I think you should know. Just before his sixth birthday, Ray accidentally got locked in the boot of the family car. He was clinically dead when he was found, but the medical team was able to revive him."

Bodie already knew about the boot incident. Robert's report hadn't missed a thing.

Collin continued, "His mum told me that he'd been conscious in there for a long time. They could tell by the bruises on his little knuckles, arms, and knees that he'd fought and kicked in an attempt to get out. He must have screamed and screamed, because his voice was so raw he couldn't speak for two weeks."

Bodie shut off his emotions against the agony of what a very young Doyle had gone through. He couldn't bear to think about it just now. "Why didn't anyone hear him?"

"His dad was mowing the lawn at the time. The noise from the mower drowned it out. By the time they realised what had happened..." Collin gave a sad shrug.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To this day, Ray hates being in small places. He still has nightmares about being trapped in that boot." Collin took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "Ray and I have known each other a very long time. Since we were two. I love him like a brother and I only want what's best for him. I want your assurance, your promise, that you'll always give him a lot of space and room to breathe."

Bodie's heart clenched for a moment and he swallowed hard. "I promise," he vowed.

A few minutes passed as they gazed at each other, then Collin nodded. "Ray's ordeal appeared to trigger a latent psychic ability, at least that's what his mum and dad were told at the institute. You see, they had him tested when he was eight, then again when he was twelve. His abilities are genuine, Bodie." Collin stabbed him with a piercing glare. "It's important that you accept that about him."

"I'm trying, Collin. I swear I am."

Getting up, Collin went to a small desk in the corner. "He's staying at my parents' country home in Kent." After jotting down the information on a piece of paper, he handed it to Bodie. "When Ray asks, I'm going to deny everything," he said with a smirk.

***

A little over an hour and a half later, Bodie found himself manoeuvring his car along a long, winding tree lined paved drive. Pulling into a clearing, his eyebrows rose at the size of the house that appeared before him. A magnificent grey and white stone mansion stood three levels high, and was enlivened with beautiful leaded glass windows and a massive portico which embraced its front entrance.

After exiting the car, Bodie made his way up the wide slate staircase, its railings draped with the blooms from the large lilac bushes. The fragrant scent of the flowers wrapped around Bodie, embracing him as he raised his hand and knocked on the large wooden door.

A few minutes later it opened and Doyle stood glaring at him. "Bugger off, Bodie." When he started to slam the door in his face, Bodie wedged his body into the doorway, leaving Doyle no choice but to open it again.

"I read Arthur's diary," Bodie growled. "Why didn't you tell me he'd dreamt about killing you?"

"Wasn't important."

"Like hell it wasn't," Bodie snarled.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Doyle snarled right back, "Why are you here? You don't believe in what I do, in who I am."

"I'm sorry, but sceptics have rights, too, and I'm exercising mine!"

"No you-"

"Yes. I. Do." Bodie emphasized his remarks with a jab of his index finger to Doyle's chest. 

Doyle's green eyes narrowed. "Listen, Bodie, you-"

"No, you listen, Ray," Bodie interrupted. "I care about you. Okay? I don't just like you, don't just find you attractive. I _care_ about you and what happens to you."

Doyle's arms fell away slowly to his sides, and his eyes widened. "I'm so bloody mad at you... I don't know what-"

"Shut up," Bodie said, stepping toward Doyle. "I knew I was in trouble the minute I laid eyes on you."

Doyle released a quick laugh. "Bodie, I-"

Bodie's kiss ended the argument. Wrapping his arms around Doyle, he backed the man inside the house, and closed the door behind them. Turning them, he pushed Doyle up against the hard wood surface. He yanked up Doyle's t-shirt to his armpits and groaned when his fingers came in contact with warm, smooth skin. Wanting to deepen the kiss, Bodie thrust his tongue inside Doyle's mouth, enjoying the sweet flavours he found there.

He pulled the t-shirt over Doyle's head and stared at the chest laid bare before him. Doyle's nipples looked like hard little nubs, lying in wait for Bodie's hungry mouth. Bending, he licked one, then nibbled on it, then sucked hard.

Doyle's head fell back against the door with a soft thud as he murmured Bodie's name.

Moving his hands across Doyle's skin, Bodie grasped his arse. With a quick tug, he pushed their groins together, feeling the hard length rub against his own.

Then Doyle's fingers were at his belt buckle. "Wait," Bodie panted, with a hand on Doyle's wrist to stop him. "Is there anyone else here?"

"No. Away on holiday." Doyle took his mouth in a long, passionate kiss and attempted to make a go at Bodie's trousers again.

"Wait," Bodie said again.

Doyle growled and glared at him in frustration, but his eyes were glowing with heated desire. "What?"

Bodie smirked. "We need something..."

"Bloody hell." Doyle turned and stomped out of the hall. A few minutes later he returned and shoved a bottle of hand cream into Bodie's hand. "Where were we?" he asked before his fingers once again dived for Bodie's belt. Seconds later, Doyle pushed his jeans down far enough for his hand to curl around Bodie's shaft. They both groaned and Bodie clung to Doyle's shoulders, hips thrusting into the warm tunnel of Doyle's fingers.

Bodie kissed Doyle again, ran his tongue along Doyle's teeth, sucked at his bottom lip. He felt Doyle's fingers stroking him, and his head began to spin. He wanted them both naked and he desperately wanted to be inside Doyle.

Against Doyle's parted lips, he huffed, "Clothes. Off. Now."

Doyle chuckled deep in his throat and slid his palm up and down Bodie's cock. Bodie released a long hiss and pushed against Doyle's hand. The little git had to know what he was doing, tormenting Bodie like this. He was panting, barely able to catch his breath. The want, the need to thrust into Doyle was just about killing him, and he was damn sure Doyle knew it.

With a parting kiss to Bodie's lips, Doyle stepped back and grinned at him. He watched as Doyle slowly began to remove the remainder of his clothing, wiggling his hips, teasing Bodie again, as the jeans slid down those long, toned legs.

Once they were both naked, Bodie tugged Doyle down to the floor. With Doyle lying under him, Bodie snatched up the hand lotion and made quick work of preparing his lover. Easing his hips forward, Bodie pushed until he was partially buried inside him. Then with one long glide, he finished the job, sinking to the hilt. Doyle arched his back, and sighed in sweet satisfaction.

Bending his neck, Bodie watched himself thrust into Doyle once more, then again and again. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of Doyle's glorious hair, tugging his head back while Bodie kissed him deeply. He ran his tongue down Doyle's neck, across his collarbone, down to one nipple.

Around his waist, Doyle's legs tightened, holding Bodie in place so he could hardly move, and he felt Doyle go still. Every muscle in Doyle's body tensed, his breathing becoming loud and raspy, and he suddenly stopped rocking against Bodie.

Doyle's head fell back, his eyes squeezed closed. Bodie bit his neck, suckling hard at the mark and Doyle moaned. Doyle's hips began to buck wildly against him and a second later wet heat splashed between their bodies.

Thank God. Bodie didn't think he could hold out much longer. With three hard thrusts, he came, his panted breaths turning into grunts of satisfaction.

After a few moments, Bodie pulled out of Doyle, slid down next to him and wrapped his lover in his arms. The scent of the lilac flowers must have followed Bodie inside. The sweet smell floated around them and seemed to cling to Doyle's skin and hair. Holding Doyle close, Bodie nuzzled his neck, taking in the scent of the flowers and the spicy scent of his lover. It was a very intoxicating aroma. 

Lifting his head, Bodie looked down into happy, sated green eyes. Doyle's lips were red and swollen as he smiled up at Bodie and began to play with Bodie's hair. He felt the tips of Doyle's fingers against his skull, and caresses at the nape of his neck. Doyle lay there, incredibly beautiful and naked and inviting, and Bodie knew he'd never be able to get enough of him.

Running a finger along Doyle's jaw, Bodie stared into his eyes and let his mind go where he'd feared it might since the day they'd met. He saw them together at Doyle's house, in Doyle's kitchen making breakfast together, laughing and teasing one another. Christmas dinners. New Year's celebrations. Cold nights and hot sex... and love.

"Are you all right?" Doyle's eyes were filled with concern. With a wry grin, he said, "You look a little green. Was it someone you ate?"

Bodie all but yanked Doyle to him, cupping Doyle's head in his hands, burying his face in the warmth of Doyle's neck.

Doyle's arms came up and around, encircling him, holding him close and he felt their bodies press together. Mmm. Soft. Hard. Warm. His. All his.

Shifting slightly, Doyle slid his legs through Bodie's and he trapped them, locking his ankles, imprisoning Doyle against him.

"Bodie," Doyle whispered. "Have to get up."

"You're not going anywhere." Lowering his head, he took Doyle's lips in a long, passionate kiss, then murmured, "Not going anywhere for a long, long time."

***

"Who wants to see me?" Robert asked, unable to keep the shock out of his voice. From behind his desk, he stared at his secretary in astonishment.

"Mr Arthur Wadsworth," she repeated. "He says you're neighbours and that his father was a friend of yours."

Robert blinked at the woman. Millie Tamsin, thirty something, blond, beautiful, with a genius IQ. If Robert hadn't been such a stickler for his rule of no dating amongst his staff, he would be very temped to ask Miss Tamsin out to dinner.

"Sir?" Millie's sweet voice broke through his thoughts. "Should I show him in?"

"Please." He nodded, anticipation tightening his gut. "And make sure the equipment's working. I want every word recorded."

"Video, too?" she asked, turning to leave.

"Yes."

Ever since he'd dropped Doyle off at two that morning, he'd spent the last eight hours investigating the hell out of Arthur Wadsworth. Exhausted and in need of sleep, he had damned little to show for his efforts.

Perhaps there was just no connection between what he'd read in the dream diary and the murder of his gardener. But his instincts told him there was. Too many coincidences. There had to be a link.

Before he had a chance to sort through his tangled thoughts, the door to his office swung open, and Arthur Wadsworth shuffled in. His skin was pale, pasty. His hair was in great need of cutting and he hadn't shaved in days. He wore rumpled jeans and a faded red t-shirt, and looked like he'd just crawled out from behind a dustbin.

Had a year at the helm of his father's company wrung the life completely out of him, or was he busy wringing the life out of innocent victims? More importantly, had Eldon Pratt been one of them?

Robert stood and extended his hand, and Arthur shook it in a brief, lifeless clasp.

Keeping his voice even, Robert said, "I haven't seen you since your father's funeral."

The other man nodded, then took the seat Robert offered.

"May I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Water? I have some excellent whisky-"

"Nothing," Arthur said absently.

Before Arthur's father had died, Arthur had been nothing more than a playboy, a major partyer, spending the old man's money as fast as possible. But the man who sat before him was a far cry from the youthful, grinning, easygoing womaniser Robert had first met years ago.

Had the weight of responsibility done this, or was it guilt of being a murderer?

Robert eased into his own chair behind his desk. How interesting that Arthur should show up here, today of all days, when he'd planned to pay the man a visit that afternoon.

"What brings you here today, Arthur?"

"I... uh..." Arthur stopped and cleared his throat. "I want to upgrade my security system at the house." He lifted his eyes to Robert. "Right now it works on sensors, but I want to add video. Can you do that?"

"The servants been stealing you blind? Or has somebody been trying to break in?"

Arthur shook his head and averted his eyes. "No. Nothing like that. Umm... Robert, I need to ask you for a favour."

"I make it a policy never to do favours."

Arthur eyed him with a mixture of desperation and hope. "I know we were never friends, even though our fathers were. He admired you, my father did. You were honest. Forthright. Hardworking. My father liked that, and when you needed a break, he loaned you the money to start up your security firm. Now I need a break. I've turned my life around only to find..." His voice faltered and he stared at his clenched hands. His knuckles stood out in white relief. "I need your help. I have nowhere else to turn, nobody else I can trust."

"What about your brother? He-"

"Nobody can know. This has to be a secret, just between you and me. At least until I get to the truth." He looked into Robert's eyes, misery and despair plain to see on his haggard face. "For the sake of my father who helped put you where you are, help me."

Robert thought of Eldon Pratt, shot to death for no good reason. He thought of a woman in a pretty purple dress with yellow flowers. Of an old homeless man in an alley. Except for their murders, none of them had anything in common. Was it possible the man sitting across the desk from him might be the common denominator?

There was only one way to find out. With a curt nod, Robert said, "All right."

***

_He stood looking at himself... but not himself. The image was distorted in some way, as though he were staring at his own reflection in moving water._

_A hand reached for him, touched him, caressed his cheek, and the image suddenly cleared. He knew now who he was, where he was, and what. He was the dreamer. He was the dream._

_A thumb stroked his bottom lip. He raised his face to the man, and the man kissed him. Beneath his palm, he felt the steady beat of the man's warrior heart._

_Inside his head, he heard the man laugh, felt the man's happiness, and confusion. Stepping back, he gauged the length of the man's strong body, the wide stance, the gun gripped in long fingers._

_The man spoke to him, but the words bounced against his own thoughts and he missed what the man said. Somehow he knew the words were important, so he closed his eyes, trying to recapture them. When he opened his eyes again, the man was a teenage boy. The gun was gone, and in the boy's fist he held an iron key._

_"It's not enough," the boy said to him, flinging it to the floor. "It's useless."_

_The boy turned and walked toward a table where his mother and Robert sat, deep in conversation. The table was heaped with foods of all kinds, but instead of joining the family, the boy stood to the side and watched, staring, but not uttering a word. The boy waited for them to acknowledge him, but they never did._

_And still the boy waited..._

Doyle's eyes fluttered open as he slowly became aware of where he was. At some point after their love making he and Bodie had got to their feet and made their way to the room Doyle was sleeping in. Now he was nestled in Bodie's arms, his head resting on a strong shoulder, their hands clasped together. He could hear the steady rhythm of Bodie's breathing, watched the rise and fall of his bare chest. Bodie was still in the throes of his dream... the dream that Doyle had seen as clearly as if it had been his own.

As he eased his hand from Bodie's relaxed fingers, the images began to fade and Doyle's own thoughts started to tumble back into his head again. He curled in a little closer and Bodie's arm came around him, pulling Doyle snug against his side.

As the daylight had faded they had made love again, and then again. Throughout the night, Bodie had sought Doyle, gently rousing him from sleep, and Doyle had eagerly complied. In the wee, quiet hours just before dawn, Bodie had pulled Doyle on top of him. Doyle had come only moments after he'd straddled Bodie's hips and impaled himself on that long, hard dick. Now spears of bright sunlight stabbed through the crack in the drawn curtains, announcing the new day was well on its way toward afternoon.

"We've been in bed for nearly twenty-four hours," Doyle said sleepily. "Hungry?"

Bodie opened one eye. "You tired? Because I don't have to be at work until tomorrow morning. Gives us plenty of time for at least ten more rounds-"

Doyle placed his fingertips over Bodie's mouth and laughed. "Would be a good idea to pace ourselves, don't you think?"

Letting his smile fade, Doyle lowered his hand and traced the taut muscles of Bodie's flat abs with the tip of a finger. He hesitated a moment then said, "Tell me about your family. About your mum, and Robert. Why are you and your brother so... unfriendly toward each other?"

Bodie took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before he answered. "We flipped a coin when we were lads. Heads got to be the easygoing fun brother, tails became the bastard."

"You got tails, right?" Doyle chided.

Bodie snorted, flipped Doyle onto his back and began to attack his ribs. He squirmed and laughed until he was able to shove Bodie's tickling hands away.

Lowering his head, Bodie gave Doyle a quick kiss to his lips. "I'm hungry," Bodie said and rubbed his hands together. "I'm envisioning toast, eggs, sausages, beans, tomatoes."

"Don't change the subject." Doyle poked Bodie playfully in the ribs. "Tell me about your family."

Bodie flopped back onto the mattress and made a face. "Is this the part where we tell each other our life stories?"

_How can I fall utterly and completely in love with you if we don't?_

"You're right. It's silly," Doyle mumbled. He shifted to get off the bed, but was stopped when Bodie's arm fell across his waist.

With a quick lift of his shoulders, Bodie leaned on one elbow, looked at Doyle and said, "Look, mine's really not worth mentioning. My parents had a bad marriage. When I was thirteen, they finally called it quits. Got a divorce. Robert and I were supposed to live with mum, but my dad seemed so... dejected. I hated to see him go off by himself, so I went with him."

"What did your dad do for a living?"

"Was a copper."

Doyle nodded. "Your leaving – didn't that upset your mum?"

Bodie sighed and said, "I suppose so. Don't know, really. She never said. My mum and I, we were very different. I suppose I'm more like dad. She was probably happy not to have to deal with me all the time."

"I'm sorry." Doyle placed his hand over Bodie's heart and moved his fingers in a gentle caress.

"I loved my mum, and I believe she loved me," Bodie assured him, "but we didn't see each other very often. Robert dealt with her much better than I ever did."

Twirling his finger around Bodie's taut belly button, Doyle asked, "How did your going with your father affect your brother?"

"It angered Robert. He'd never got along with Dad. Didn't understand the choice I made. He accused me of abandoning him and mum. Guess he's never forgiven me."

"But you were just young lads? Victims of your parents' divorce, not the cause. You were both forced to make choices that were hard and painful." Edging up onto his elbow, Doyle stared into Bodie's eyes. "When you grew up, didn't you want to reunite with Robert? Establish a better relationship?"

Bodie closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, "Yes. And no. Being apart physically only reinforced that we were apart emotionally. Any time I went to visit Robert and mum, I was never there long enough to make things better between us. Besides, Robert's got a stick so far up his arse, he can't bend over. I'm tired of trying."

"You know, it probably hurt him that you picked your father over him... He was just a kid, so that's probably how it looked to him back then. Now he's scared that if you both find common ground, you'll take off again. Could be he's just afraid."

"Robert's not afraid of anything."

Stroking Bodie's forehead, Doyle slid his hand down to brush his knuckles across a whisker rough cheek. "I can see how you'd think that. Perhaps if you tried to look at things from his point of view..."

"I'm willing to do it, but he's not going to reciprocate."

"You assume."

"I _know._ "

"Now who's being rigid? Sounds to me like you two are a lot more alike than you'd care to admit."

"Ta very much, Dr Doyle," Bodie snorted.

Doyle laughed and pounced on Bodie, pushing him flat on his back and stealing a kiss. Stretching out across Bodie's body, Doyle crossed his arms over the muscular chest and gazed down at him. "What happened to your father?"

"He died five years ago. Cancer."

"Do you miss him?"

Bodie swallowed hard. "Yeah."

Silence stretched between them. Doyle settled back down next to Bodie, pulling the sheets up to cover them.

A moment passed. Then another.

"I had a brother," Doyle said softly. "But you probably already knew that."

Bodie made an angry noise in his throat. "Yeah. Look, Ray, about that background check... I didn't know you then, and-"

"His name was Harrison," Doyle interrupted, resting his head against Bodie's chest, closing his eyes. "I called him Harry. He was a nice looking lad. Bet that part wasn't in your file. My father had opened the boot of his car to get something, and left it open. I thought it would be fun to climb inside and close the lid, scare him when he came back. So we did, climbed inside. Harry and me. He was a few years younger. Followed me everywhere. Did whatever I did."

Bodie went very still. Against his ear, Doyle could hear the steady beat of Bodie's heart. Hearing it gave him courage.

"The boot had seemed big because we were so small," he whispered, "but the air went fast. We were in there, huddled together, my arms around my little brother. And he... he fell asleep. I tried to wake him, but he wouldn't open his eyes."

He had grown more terrified by the moment, kicking and pounding and screaming. For a long time. Forever.

"It was so dark in there, and hot. I remember the darkness, how it seemed to clutch at me. Then I went to sleep, too. I dreamt of white lights, and dancing ladies, and Auntie Rose was there, and Uncle Frank. Then I woke up and me mum was holding me, sobbing so hard..."

But Harry didn't wake up. All Doyle knew for sure was that it had been his idea. Harry had gone to sleep forever, and it was all Doyle's fault.

"I wondered if Harry had dreamt, too," Doyle said softly. "And if he had seen Aunt Rose and Uncle Frank, ladies and lights. If he had liked it so much, he decided to stay with them. When I discovered I could see other people's dreams, I thought perhaps it was Harry, forgiving me, letting me know that he was glad that he had stayed. That perhaps helping people understand their dreams was what I was meant to do, because I knew what it was like to wake up and not understand, like on that day, that day I woke up, and Harry didn't."

***

Bodie made love to Doyle again. Tenderly, with the utmost passion and care. Hell, how could he not? What Doyle had told him, the stark look in his love's eyes, the torment in his simple words. Making love to Doyle didn't nearly begin to soothe the heartache Doyle felt, but Bodie did his damndest to try.

When they were finished, he held Doyle in his arms while Doyle cried a little. And with Doyle's head buried against his chest, Bodie closed his eyes and ignored the tears that trickled down his own cheeks.

A million thoughts jumbled together inside his head. A million scenarios formed. A million words he wanted to say. No, not a million. Just three. But he knew Doyle wasn't ready to hear them, so instead Bodie held him, stroked his hair, and swallowed down the grief he felt for the man he loved.

After a while, Doyle raised his head. "I need to wash me face," he said, and pushed himself away. Scrubbing at his eyes briefly, Doyle gave Bodie a slight smile, then padded into the bathroom.

As Bodie lay there with his hands folded behind his head, letting his mind work on what he was going to say to Doyle next, his RT beeped.

"Not yet, goddammit." Getting off the bed, Bodie retrieved his jacket, tugging the RT out of the pocket. "It's my day off," he snarled.

"Hello to you too, 3.7.," a female voice replied sarcastically. "Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Bodie, but a call just came through the switchboard. Urgent message from your brother. Wants you and Mr Doyle to meet him at his office."

Bodie sighed. "Ta, love," he said into the RT before cutting the connection.

Doyle entered the room and frowned at seeing the radio in Bodie's hand. He had washed his face and managed to tame down the unruly curls ever so slightly. Doyle looked vulnerable, and beautiful, and again those three words clamoured inside Bodie's head, wanting to be spoken.

"You have to go to work?" Doyle asked.

"No," Bodie replied, walking over to him. "Let me take you to dinner. Some place fancy."

Smiling, Doyle asked, "What's the occasion?"

Bodie placed a kiss on his lips. "It'll be your reward for enduring a meeting with me brother."

Nearly two hours later, he and Doyle walked through the unlocked double glass doors of D-Tect Investigations.

They entered the reception area which was furnished in an elegant, yet masculine design. A large mahogany desk, adorned with a bouquet of fresh flowers, dominated the space. The carpet was thick, the sofa made of fine fabric. Bodie had seen the place a few times before, but Doyle hadn't, and he stood looking around, his eyes wide.

"Nice paintings," Doyle said, gesturing to the original oils displayed on the walls. "I'm assuming your brother serves a particular clientele, and not just your average person looking for an adulterous spouse."

Behind them, Bodie heard a _snick_ , and realised the locks on the doors had been thrown. A moment later, Robert's voice came over the intercom.

"The door to the inner offices is open."

Escorting Doyle through the heavy mahogany doors, they were greeted by Robert standing across the corridor, a coffee mug in his hand.

"Hello again, Mr Doyle," Robert said as he gestured them inside his office. "Will."

Their eyes met and locked. Robert was the first to look away.

Robert's private office was large and tastefully decorated. In mahogany and chrome, it was all polish and sharp edges, just like Robert. Nothing of a personal nature had found its way here, except for one small item on the desk. Bodie couldn't recall having seen it there before.

It was a photograph of two little boys sitting closely together on a sofa, grinning broadly for the camera, arms around each other.

When Robert caught Bodie staring at the photo, he moved a stack of files in front of it, obscuring the small portrait from view.

"Please have a seat." Robert gestured toward the conference table.

"You always work on Sundays, big brother?" Bodie asked as they sat down.

"I work every day," Robert answered. He flipped open a file folder and slipped a grainy photograph across the table top toward Doyle.

Next to Bodie, Doyle sucked in his breath and reached out to bring the photo closer.

"You recognise him, then?" Robert said to Doyle.

Bodie watched Doyle nod, his green eyes shocked and filled with what appeared to be sympathy.

"It's Arthur. He looks horrid," Doyle said with a frown. "Where did you get this, Robert?"

"He paid me a little visit."

Bodie shot a look at his brother. "He came to see you? Where is he now?"

"I let him go home."

Bodie felt his temper start to rise. "You had him, and let him go? Bloody hell, Robert! He'll be long gone by now."

Robert's hazel eyes narrowed as he relaxed back in his chair. "It's complicated."

"If it's so fucking complicated, why did you bother asking us here? You know CI5 wants to talk to this bloke. Why didn't you hold him here? If you didn't want to bloody well talk to me, you could have at least talked with Cowley."

Robert shrugged. "I could have done a lot of things. But what I did was, I let him go. Like I said, it's complicated." Leaning across the table, he narrowed his gaze on Bodie. "I want him more than you do, so stop your bitching. I'm handling it."

Bodie stood, placing both palms flat on the polished surface, and leant toward his brother until they were nearly nose to nose.

" _How_ are you handling it? Who is this guy? Why did he come to see you? Enlighten me, Robert, or I swear I'll arrest you for interfering with a CI5 investigation."

***

It was like watching two gladiators in the arena, and Doyle was afraid they'd come to blows. They were both big healthy men, well muscled, fit, equal in every way.

He watched as they glared at each other across a chasm of years too deep, too difficult, too painful to span, especially when their only bridge was the anger they shared.

"He tried to hurt Ray," Bodie bit out between clenched teeth. "The bastard names him in his diary. Describes himself murdering Ray. _Tell me who he is._ "

Robert flicked a glance at Doyle, and in those eyes Doyle saw an instant flash of compassion, then hard resolve. And Doyle knew Robert would never tell, not if the man didn't want to, no matter what.

"I'm sure Doyle is well protected," Robert said casually. "Besides, do you have any evidence against Arthur? Can you connect any of those murders with physical evidence? Got any witnesses? Do you have _anything_ that points to him as the killer, other than his dream diary?"

"We have a partial print on a shard of glass-"

"Not good enough, Will, and you know it."

Doyle watched Bodie's chest rise and fall as he stood with his fists clenched at his sides. "You're not going to help me out, are you? You only wanted Doyle to verify you had the right guy."

"I can see all this time you've spent in CI5 has finally paid off." Robert snatched up the photo and placed it back in the folder.

"Shove it up your arse, Robert." Turning to Doyle, he wrapped a hand around Doyle's upper arm, practically yanking him out of his seat. "Let's go. I owe you supper."

Once standing, Doyle looked at Robert, assessing him, trying to figure out who he really was underneath all the bitterness and stoicism. There was a way, if Doyle could pull it off. But Robert was very smart, so Doyle would have to catch him unawares to make it work because if Robert suspected, the man would shut down and Doyle would get nothing.

Taking a step forward, Doyle feigned to stumble and reached for the table to brace himself.

"You all right, Ray?" Bodie asked, concern evident in his voice which made Doyle's gut twist with guilt for deceiving him.

"Just a tad dizzy. Need to sit for a minute." Bodie pulled out a chair and hovered nearby as Doyle sat down. "Could use a glass of water, Robert."

Though Robert said nothing, he rose and walked to the small bar behind his desk, filled a glass and brought it to where Doyle sat. As Robert placed the glass on the table, Doyle reached out and touched the back of Robert's hand.

_A woman... face down, floating in the bay. Her hair swirls around her head like golden seaweed. He reaches for her, panic choking him. Inside his chest, his heart is bursting with agony. No, no, no, no! He yells for help, but the water is tinged pink, and he smells the blood and death, and knows it's too late..._

Doyle snatched his hand away. Robert looked down at him, his hazel eyes confused at first, then they came into bright focus. First Robert glanced at his own hand, then at Doyle's fingers.

"Very good," Robert said. "Aren't you clever."

"I'm sorry." Doyle swallowed. "I didn't understand..."

"What are you talking about?" Bodie asked, flashing a look between them.

Without answering, Robert walked toward his desk and dropped into the chair. "I don't care if you think me a bastard, Will. I have to do this my way."

Bodie's eyes flared with anger. Stalking to the door, he yanked it open. "Things were bad between us before, Robert," he growled. "You've just made them a hell of a lot worse."

As Doyle followed Bodie out into the corridor, behind him he heard Robert murmur under his breath, "Yeah. I know."

***

"You wouldn't really arrest your brother, would you?"

As they drove out of the darkened car park beneath the D-Tect Investigations offices, Bodie risked a glance at Doyle. Concern shone in the beautiful green eyes, misguided distress for a man who didn't deserve it.

"No," Bodie finally said. "Might beat the shit out of him, though."

"Hmm," Doyle mused. "Think he'd give you a run for your money. Looks quite capable of holding his own."

"So we beat the shit out of each other," Bodie growled. "I'm up for a good row."

Changing gear, he turned at the corner and headed in the direction of his flat. He gripped the steering wheel, letting his fingers curl around the unyielding leather, imagining it was his brother's neck.

"Bodie," Doyle said quietly. "I saw that photograph on Robert's desk. No mistaking the two of you as boys. Don't you find that... interesting?"

Bodie shrugged. "No."

"Oh, don't pretend it didn't surprise you, didn't make you wonder about it. Want to know what I think."

"Not really."

"Good." Doyle smiled over at Bodie, lips curved in gentle sympathy. "I think he loves you. Misses you. You're his only brother. His only family now. That picture... it's his only connection to you."

"Loves me," Bodie mocked. "Well, he's got a twisted way of showing it."

"Yes, he does. Perhaps it's the only way he knows. Give him time, Bodie," Doyle urged. "Eventually, he'll find a way to show you how he feels."

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Bodie simply grunted.

"What happened when you touched him?" Bodie asked. "Did you see something?"

Doyle's brows shot up and his lips parted. A heartbeat later, he sent Bodie a sarcastic look. "Thought you didn't believe in what-"

"Did you see something or not?"

Doyle looked down at his hands for a moment before glancing at Bodie. "I did see something."

"Tell me."

"I can't." Doyle shook his head. "Not my story to tell, is it. You want to know, ask Robert. Some open communication between you would-"

"Yeah, right." Bodie released a long, weary sigh. "Okay, why don't you tell me whether what you think you saw has anything to do with this case?"

Doyle seemed to consider that for a moment. "Only indirectly. It affects his personal code of ethics, which, from what I can tell, are insanely high and completely unyielding."

"No kidding."

After a pause, Doyle continued. "Touching Robert, it wasn't what I expected. It surprised me, but I understand him better now. What I saw, it's what drove him to start his investigations company."

"What _drove_ him?"

"I shouldn't say anything."

"Oh, come on, Ray," Bodie said, frustrated.

Doyle shook his head and went silent. Just when Bodie didn't think he'd go on, Doyle said, "Ask him about... Abbey."

Bodie sent Doyle a quick glance. "Who the hell is Abbey?"

"Just ask him, Bodie. He might tell you."

Bodie snorted. Yeah, right. If he and his brother had any chance of repairing their fractured relationship, Robert's refusal to reveal his client's name pretty much put an end to it. As far as Bodie was concerned, Robert was every bit the cold-hearted bastard he'd always been, maybe worse, because Robert knew Doyle was named in the diary. And unless Robert was completely dense, he also knew Doyle was important to Bodie. Robert's silence could be putting Doyle at risk, and that was something Bodie was going to have a very hard time forgiving.

A few streets before they reached Bodie's flat, the dark, gloomy sky opened up, so by the time he parked the Capri on a secluded side street, it was raining heavily.

Shifting in his seat, Bodie turned to look at Doyle. "I need to change, then we'll head out for supper."

Next to him, Doyle was shrouded in shadows. Fat raindrops assailed the roof and struck at the windows, making it sound like he'd parked under a rushing waterfall.

"Know what?" Doyle said softly, huddling down in his seat. "Not really hungry, but... there's something about the inside of a car at night during a rainstorm..." He looked over at Bodie, gaze hot.

Bodie's mouth went dry.

Reaching to his left, Doyle pulled the handle, and his seat slowly reclined. He unfastened his seatbelt, pulled his t-shirt off and stretched his arms above his head, lengthening his body, giving Bodie a good look at what he had to offer. Doyle turned his head toward Bodie and whispered, "Lock the doors, Bodie." Lowering his right hand to his groin, Doyle cupped his cock and groaned in pleasure when his fingers squeezed. "Get over here."

Bodie didn't need to be asked twice.

Suddenly he was so hard he could barely breathe. He practically snapped a femur leaping over the gearstick. With a little concentration, a few laughs, and a lot of hard work, they switched places, putting Bodie on the bottom. Doyle straddled him, undid his jeans and wiggled out of them and his shoes, cursing when his head thwacked against the roof.

When Doyle situated himself once again on Bodie's lap, he wrapped a hand around the nape of Doyle's neck and yanked him down for a kiss. Doyle released a moan when Bodie shoved his tongue deep, taking complete possession of his lover. His thumb circled Doyle's taut nipple making Doyle wiggle his hips against him, telling Bodie that Doyle was as eager as he was to get on with it.

"Always wanted to do it in a car in the rain," Doyle panted against Bodie's open mouth.

"Happy to comply," Bodie growled, then manoeuvred Doyle farther up his body to take a nipple into his mouth.

"Yes," Doyle breathed. "Oh, God..."

Fumbling like a horny teenager, Bodie managed to get his pants open and down over his hips.

"Need lube," Doyle said and moved against Bodie, rubbing hard against his cock.

"Glove-box."

Doyle looked down at him, eyes twinkling, and quirked an eyebrow.

Bodie smirked " _Always be prepared_... it's me motto."

With a laugh, Doyle twisted, popped the glove-box and snagged the bottle. Doyle turned back to him, only to whack his head once again and bang his elbow against the side window. 

"Bloody hell," Doyle complained, rubbing at the sore spot on the top of his head.

Bodie chuckled. "Come and give us a kiss, it'll make it all better." Complying, Doyle bent down and Bodie kissed him, their tongues tangling together, laughter mingling.

Taking the lube from Doyle, Bodie opened the cap. He coated his fingers generously before quickly preparing his lover. Satisfied that Doyle was ready, he coated his own cock with more lube, lined up and impaled him. Doyle gave a soft cry, arching over Bodie, and Bodie took the opportunity to suck and tongue a hardened nipple.

"Bodie." Doyle hissed.

Bodie pulled back slightly then thrust into Doyle again and again, barely able to hang on. He hoped to hell Doyle was close, because he didn't think he could last much longer.

With the rain pounding the roof wildly above them, Bodie's head spun, and the only thing he could feel was where his body met Doyle's.

Bodie's universe collapsed down into this small space where the cold rain hammered out a hot rhythm and the night air was overpowered by the warmth of the man in his arms.

In all Bodie's life, nothing had ever felt so perfect, so complete.

Doyle found his release, letting out a satisfied sound that electrified Bodie deep in his soul. Burying his face against Doyle's neck, he thrust again, and once more, his climax coming harder than he would have believed possible.

A few moments passed before Bodie felt Doyle stir. Cupping his fingers under Doyle's chin, Bodie lifted his head and kissed him, long and slow. Inching back a bit, he met Doyle's eyes and ran a finger along his bottom lip. 

"I love you," Bodie said softly.

Doyle's breath caught. Pellets of rain hit the windscreen like tiny rocks tossed against glass. Even in the watery shadows, Bodie could see Doyle's eyes boring into his.

Okay, it had been abrupt, unplanned, all of it. Doyle didn't have to say it back. Bodie was an adult after all. Doyle didn't have to say it back. Really. He didn't.

Doyle lowered his lashes and set his jaw. Suddenly the silence had lasted too long. Bodie tugged his trousers in place, flicked the locks and opened the door. Easing himself out from under Doyle, he clumsily stumbled out onto the pavement, then quickly closed the door.

By the time he reached the driver's side and slid behind the wheel, his clothing was back in place, albeit a little wet.

Cranking the ignition, Bodie said nothing as he steered the car away from his flat.

"Bodie," Doyle said, but Bodie ignored him. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodie could see that Doyle had fixed his own clothing and brought the seat back up. "Please, listen."

"Later," Bodie said, too casually. "Just remembered an early meeting with Cowley in the morning."

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of Doyle's house. Doyle quickly stepped out of the car and closed the door quietly behind him. When he reached the steps, he turned to face Bodie.

Behind a curtain of rain, standing in the circle of the porch light, Doyle looked lost, vulnerable. Bodie knew he should do something about it, but he couldn't. Not after what had just happened.

Doyle lifted his hand, gave a small smile and a wave, yet Bodie did nothing but change hard into gear and pull away from the kerb.

The interior of his car still smelled like sex, so he rolled the window down. Rain splashed inside, wetting the upholstery. Cold air slapped at his face, but he didn't care, he deserved the punishment. Perhaps enough fresh air would obliterate the stupidity of what he'd done.

When the hell would he learn to think _before_ he said something as explosive as _I love you_?

And Bodie did... love Doyle. The thought of losing him scared Bodie. However, not losing Doyle absolutely terrified him.

He didn't know how to be in a permanent relationship. What if he screwed it all up? What if Doyle got tired of him or bored by him? What if... damn, a million things.

Bodie hadn't even been able to properly pull off telling Doyle he loved him. He'd blurted it out in a car after having sex. Shit, that must have really impressed Doyle.

Not to mention that Doyle obviously didn't love him in return. Doyle's eyes had widened and stared at Bodie like he'd just admitted to stealing candy from a babe instead of making a confession of love.

Perhaps if Doyle had blurted it right back, it would have been okay, but he hadn't. Which only meant Doyle didn't return the same feelings, and now Bodie'd gone and ruined everything by not taking his time and doing it right.

He needed to think about this, about how to fix it, if he could. He'd never told anyone he loved them before. This was uncharted territory and it left him feeling a little queasy.

Had he lost Doyle for good? Had his unbridled idiocy put Doyle off and out of reach? 

What Bodie really wanted to do was punch something, instead he blew out a harsh breath and decided to move past the incident for now. He'd turn his attention to the case, to finding out who his brother's client was. Familiar territory. Work. _That_ he knew how to handle.

First thing in the morning he'd talk with Murphy regarding everything they had on the case. There were leads there, clues. They just needed to decipher them, follow them.

Besides, Doyle could still be in danger, and just because Doyle didn't love him didn't mean he was going to abandon his commitment to protect him. Far from it.

***

Between bites of scrambled egg, Doyle sensed his best friend's scrutiny. He knew Collin was waiting for him to say something about his weekend stay at Collin's parents' home, and how he'd got home without his car, but so far no direct questioning had occurred. But this was Collin, after all. It was only a matter of time.

Pouring hot water into a mug, Collin said casually, "Get everything all sorted out this weekend?"

Doyle swallowed. _No. It's worse than ever._ "Mm-hmm."

Collin set the steaming kettle back on the stove and took a seat across the table from Doyle. "Bodie came looking for you. He said it was official business, so I told him where you'd gone. I hope that was okay."

"It’s fine," Doyle said, his eyes glued to his plate.

"I didn't hear you come in last night," Collin said. Since he was looking after Doyle's plants, and bringing in the post, Collin had stayed at the house for the weekend, instead of heading back to the city to his own flat.

"I came in," Doyle replied. "Was late."

Collin chuckled as he raised his mug to his lips. "I assume so, since you're sitting here now." Cocking his head, he said lightly, "How did the business with Bodie work out-"

"If you're going to grill me like this, I suppose I'll have to tell you!"

Doyle slammed his fork down. It made a clattering sound as it hit the porcelain plate, and bits of egg splattered across the table top. He was about to storm out of the room, then thought better of it. It wasn't Collin's fault that things had gone to hell between him and Bodie. Placing his palms face down on either side of his plate, Doyle took a deep breath, and held it for a second before releasing it. He looked up and met his friend's eyes. "Sorry."

Collin sent him a kind look and said softly, "I take it you and Bodie slept together."

Doyle nodded. Miserably.

"I understand," Collin said. Reaching for Doyle's hand, Collin covered it with his own and squeezed gently. "You've been so determined to never let another man into your life, Bodie just sort of sneaked up on you, didn't he? You were angry at being out of love, and now you're angry about being in it. But you can't have it both ways, love."

Doyle sighed and nodded again. "He told me he loves me, but I couldn't say it back. Don't know why, I just couldn't. God, Collin, Bodie was so hurt."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Collin soothed. "If Bodie really loves you, he'll come around. He just needs to figure out a few things first."

"Like what?"

"About you. Something inside him must know you love him in return, which is why he felt safe telling you how he feels. Give him some time, and in the meantime, you have some thinking of your own to do."

Doyle gazed at Collin and smiled. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

"Bloody right I am." Collin grinned. "Besides, no one else would put up with you."

Doyle laughed and they both stood to take their dishes to the sink. When Collin turned to walk away, Doyle pulled him into a hug. "Thanks, mate. I mean it."

"Any time, love." Collin wrapped his arms around Doyle's waist. "Any time."

***

"Arthur," Bodie grumbled. "Dammit. Arthur _who_?"

Across the small conference table, Murphy shuffled through a stack of papers. "Well, you've got your Arthur Wellesley, Arthur Conan Doyle, King Arthur-"

"Think we can rule them out. They're all dead."

Murphy snorted.

Scanning Doyle's handwritten notes, Bodie said, "Apparently this Scott Williams looked and acted rich, maybe even powerful. Since Doyle thought Arthur drove an Aston Martin, we can tentatively assume these are people who move in high financial and social circles."

Murphy grabbed his cup of tea and took a gulp. "So we have a rich guy named Arthur _something_ who would be plunged into scandal if his name was connected with a murder investigation. That could narrow it down." He picked up a pen and scribbled on the paper filled with their case notes.

"According to Doyle," Bodie said, "Arthur's father died recently, which would put a great deal of stress on him, I think. We need a list of obituaries for men over the age of say, fifty, in the last eighteen months. Perhaps one of them has a son named Arthur."

Rubbing his jaw, Murphy nodded. "Going to take some time to assemble that kind of data."

"Then we'd better talk with Cowley about this and get started."

***

Gavin Hughes chuckled out loud as he headed for the lift on the fifth floor of the posh building in central London.

His scheme to have Doyle's grandmother put both his and Doyle's name on the deeds had worked brilliantly and the house was by rights half his. The news from his lawyer had been tremendous. That old wreck of a house was going to bring a tidy sum on the market, and he was going to be first in line to cash in.

Gavin grinned brightly and rubbed his hands together in excitement. Finally, he'd have enough money to get the hell out of England and move somewhere where it was warm and sunny all year round. 

He ran his fingers through his thick hair. At thirty-four, he knew he was prime stock. He had looks, style, a killer smile. A microscopic twinge of guilt pinched his brain. He probably shouldn't have slept with that bloke last night, but the lad had given him the come-on, and there was no way he'd let that fine looking arse walk away without having a piece of it.

As long as his boyfriend didn't find out, he'd be okay. Especially since his boyfriend's uncle had a reputation for getting huge settlements for his clients and it wouldn't pay to piss the man off.

With a dance in his step, he made his way to his motor parked in the underground car park. As he approached his vehicle, he heard a noise behind him, a slight scuffling, then a popping sound.

Something stung him between his shoulders, searing pain making its way from his back to his brain, driving him to his knees. He was having trouble breathing, and as he put his hands to his throat, he looked down to see a red stain growing on the front of his white shirt.

_Jesus. What the hell..._

He slumped over, his strength easing itself away from him as though he were drugged and going into a deep sleep. Unable to remain upright, he slid to the cold concrete floor.

He closed his eyes for a moment, too weak to keep them open. Seconds ticked by, or was it minutes? The sound of footsteps caused him to open his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he tried to focus on the retreating figure, but his lids were too heavy and they began to close again.

He heard a car door slam, an engine humming to life. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he forced his eyes open in time to see his killer's car roll through the garage and head for the street.

_No way. Son of a bitch..._

Running his tongue over his dry mouth, he tried to form words, call out for help, but his lungs didn't have enough air to propel them from his lips. He stared vacantly at the empty, silent garage.

***

Monday drifted into Tuesday, and the rain clouds blew away, but Doyle's heart felt bleak and heavy as if it were encased in ice. He'd spent the best part of two days in his studio painting, which occupied his mind and helped keep his thoughts from straying to Bodie. By Wednesday he was utterly exhausted and miserable and more than ready to teach his dream interpretation class. Interacting with his students always made him feel better, and he was hoping this week's session would have that same effect.

As he got behind the wheel of his car, Doyle thought about how much he missed Bodie. His throat ached all the time, not to mention his heart. Whenever the phone rang, his stomach would do a little flip in expectation hoping it would be Bodie. It never was.

Doyle knew he could call Bodie and apologise, but what could he say? _I'm sorry I hurt your feelings because I wasn't ready to say the words back to you?_

He supposed the better question would be, why _had_ he bitten his tongue rather than confess his feelings? Collin had been right, Doyle did have to ask himself some hard questions soon, or he risked losing a man he'd grown to love from the very centre of his soul.

It wasn't love itself that was the problem, it was his trust _about_ love. Doyle understood full well that the person you loved could love you fiercely one moment, and the next the heat that warmed your relationship was gone. And so were they.

Doyle was sure his parents had once had that kind of love, but look what had happened to them. His father had suddenly decided he no longer wanted to be married and up and left his mum – left Doyle, without a word. No good-byes, no I'm sorrys, no I love yous, just gone.

And Gavin had done exactly the same thing.

Doyle had loved Gavin deeply. And he'd been convinced that Gavin had loved him in return. But Gavin had begun to stray whenever his ego needed a boost, and when Doyle had come home unexpectedly that fateful day to find the man he loved in their bed with not one, but two blokes...

He blew out a breath and released his tight grip on the steering wheel. "Arsehole," Doyle murmured as he turned the corner a street away from the community centre.

And now that lying, cheating bastard wanted money, wanted to take Doyle's home away from him. His grandmother's house was the anchor of his life, his home base, the one place he could go to and feel safe and secure, and now because of Gavin he might lose it. After Gavin had left, Doyle's emotions and feelings of self-worth had shattered, the betrayal and hurt so great it had taken him an entire year to recover. He'd put his heart and soul into their relationship and Gavin had thrown it away like last week's rubbish.

Doyle couldn't fathom Bodie doing something so horrible, but where was Doyle's guarantee Bodie wouldn't simply grow tired of him? That would be the worst betrayal of all.

Pulling into the community centre's car park, he slid into his usual spot, feeling more unsettled than ever.

What Doyle needed was some time to sort things out. He'd hoped it would have happened at Collin's parents' house last weekend, but then Bodie had shown up...

Heat curled through Doyle's body at the memory of the two of them together. He let it warm all the dark, cold places that he didn't even know he had, until he'd met Bodie. Bodie had been so loving and caring with him after he'd told Bodie about Harry. It was at that moment when he realised he'd fallen in love. Bodie had held him while his tears of grief and loss had fallen, had said soft, soothing words while he'd stroked Doyle's hair.

_Oh, Bodie. I do love you, but I can't risk having you walk out the way my father and Gavin did. I just... can't. How can I make you understand?_

Doyle got out of his car and a few minutes later he entered the classroom and forced himself to relax. While he wrote the lesson plan on the blackboard, a few more people trickled in behind him and took their seats. When he turned around, his heart skipped a beat and his tongue went numb.

There Bodie sat, front-row centre, wearing faded blue jeans, and a black turtleneck sweater that stretched across his muscled chest and flat stomach like a second skin. He was sprawled in his chair, long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Bodie's deep blue eyes raked Doyle's body, then locked with his. Steely-eyed and serious, he surveyed Doyle like a gunslinger preparing for a showdown.

And Doyle knew exactly who it was Bodie was gunning for.

***

Doyle forced his mouth into a smile. "Welcome to class, everyone." He sent a quick glance at Bodie then continued. "As usual, we'll begin with a discussion and analysis of a student dream. Anybody have a dream they'd like to-"

Bodie's hand shot up.

"-share?" Ignoring Bodie, Doyle looked around the classroom. "Anyone?"

But Bodie's was the only hand raised. He wiggled his fingers, then stretched his arm higher.

Looking over Bodie's head, past his shoulder, out the window, Doyle let his gaze roam everywhere but over Bodie.

Because he was bent on ignoring him, all eyes in the classroom turned to Bodie and his childish bid for attention. Mrs Felder, sitting just behind Bodie, snorted a little laugh.

Sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Doyle plastered a cheery smile on his face. "Okay, since nobody has anything to share-"

"Coward," Bodie mumbled, loud enough for the class to hear,

Doyle narrowed his eyes on Bodie, jaw tightening.

With a smirky curl to his lip, Bodie lowered his hand. "I had a dream I'd like to share, Mr Doyle."

Placing his hands on his hips, Doyle said, "I find that surprising, Mr Bodie, since you once informed me that you don't remember your dreams. Unless, of course, you plan on making one up. Again."

"No," Bodie drawled, lengthening the word to five syllables. "It's real. I remember every detail. Vividly." His voice was low, throaty, and a warning bell chimed inside Doyle's head.

The other students stayed quiet, sitting up straighter in their chairs and watching the exchange with growing interest.

There was obviously no getting around this situation. Doyle had no choice but to cave in. "All right, Mr Bodie. Make it quick. Tell us your dream so we can get on with the class."

A look of wry satisfaction shone in Bodie's eyes as he straightened in his chair. "I think I should warn everyone," Bodie began, "it's x-rated."

Titters and sighs emanated from some of the women in the class.

"In that case," Doyle said, "perhaps you shouldn't-"

"Oh, let him tell it, Mr Doyle," Molly Baxter begged. "We're all adults here. I'm sure we can handle whatever Mr Bodie has to say with... maturity, and an open mind." Then she blushed and grinned at Bodie while several other people nodded in agreement.

"Fine," Doyle said in a tone of irritated capitulation. "Go ahead, Mr Bodie."

Leaning forward, Bodie placed his elbows on his knees and looked into Doyle's eyes. Doyle braced himself for what he was sure was coming.

"I dreamt I was in my car with my lover."

Doyle froze. His heart ceased to beat. His brain ceased to function.

"It was cold and windy and raining."

Doyle swallowed.

"We were in the passenger seat of my car, having absolutely phenomenal sex."

Even though Doyle's blood turned cold, his cheeks burned hot. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Bodie.

"Actually it was my lover's idea," Bodie continued. "It was raining hard, the windows steamed up. My lover was so hot and seductive, I went for it. Who wouldn't?"

Bodie looked around the classroom. Heads nodded, throats cleared, students swallowed and murmured affirmative responses. Doyle was mute, but kept his eyes glued on Bodie.

"It was a very passionate encounter," Bodie insisted, "and when it was over, when we were relaxed and having a nice conversation, I... well, I told my lover that I loved him."

A couple of women actually sighed out loud. Doyle scowled at Bodie, his throat tight in embarrassed fury.

Bodie cocked his head and entwined his fingers in front of him. Doyle's gaze dropped to Bodie's hands. The man had such wonderful hands, and knew just what to do with them, the bastard.

"But my lover just stared at me and didn't say it back. _That_ was when I woke up." Bodie paused. "What do you think it means, Mr Doyle?" he asked with an innocent lilt to his voice. "Why do you think my lover didn't tell me he loves me?"

The whole class appeared to stop breathing while all eyes turned to Doyle.

Licking his lips, Doyle paced for a moment, then swivelled to face Bodie. "What do _you_ think it means, Mr Bodie?"

Bodie's gaze narrowed on him. " _You_ tell _me_."

"But it was _your_ dream."

" _You're_ the expert. Why wouldn't my lover say it back?"

"Class," Doyle said, ignoring Bodie's challenge. "What type of dream did Mr Bodie just describe – prophetic, release, wish, or problem-solving?"

"Erotic," somebody mumbled.

"Wish dream," said another.

"Seems like a classic release dream to me," Bodie said, running his eyes over Doyle's body.

Everyone but Doyle laughed. "Perhaps," he began, "in your dream, your lover was caught off guard. Didn't know what to say. You getting angry and sullen certainly didn't open the lines of communication."

"Yeah, I was angry. But not at my lover." Bodie sat back in his seat. "Don't you think my lover would want to hear me declare my love, especially after sharing something so intimate?"

"Yes. Sometimes." Doyle took a deep breath. "Perhaps in your dream, your lover had some trust issues, and simply didn't know how to respond."

"Trust issues?" Bodie snorted. "I would never intentionally hurt-"

"Yeah, trust issues, Bodie." With his hands at his sides, Doyle balled his hands into fists. "With a father who walked out on me, and an ex-lover I caught with two men. Did you ever stop to consider that perhaps your lover is a bit upset because you deny part of what he is, who he is, and perhaps that hurts him."

Bodie's brows rose. "Wasn't my intention to hurt him."

"Well, it did!" Doyle closed his eyes briefly and waited until he calmed down a little before he spoke again. "Perhaps, if you'd let him know that, even though you might not believe in his gifts, it's okay. That if you'd been willing to keep an open mind, you might have come to understand the real reason he didn't tell you he loves you." Doyle was breathing hard and shaking with anger. "Shit," he swore under his breath. "I'll be right back," he told the class.

When it looked like Bodie might follow, Doyle shook his head and said so only Bodie could hear, "Wait here. I need a minute alone."

With that, Doyle hurried down the hall and out the double doors that led to the car park. His head down, his emotions in a jumbled mess, he reached his car and jammed the key into the lock, flinging open the door.

Bloody hell! Did Bodie have to be so public about their private affairs? Did he think this little stunt was going to get Doyle to reveal his innermost feelings and fears to him – in front of a classroom full of people?

Hearing footsteps behind him, Doyle grumbled under his breath. Instead of doing as he'd asked, Bodie had followed him instead. This was neither the time nor the place to hash out their relationship problems. When he did finally decide to tell Bodie how he felt about him, Doyle wanted it to be meaningful, special, not part of some angry battle of wills in a car park.

Turning, Doyle watched Bodie emerge from the shadows into the lamp light and Doyle suddenly realised it wasn't Bodie at all.

"Oh, it's you," Doyle said, as his heart stammered over its next beat. "What are you doing here?"

***

Just as Doyle's delectable arse disappeared out the door, Bodie's RT beeped. Slipping out of the classroom and into the hallway, he spoke into the radio.

"3.7."

Murphy's voice greeted him. "Are you with Doyle?"

"Yes." Bodie frowned. "Why?"

Murphy seemed to hesitate before he said, "His ex-boyfriend, Gavin Hughes was shot three days ago-"

"You can't possibly think-"

"Shut up and listen a minute, Bodie," Murphy said. "Hughes is in a stable condition now. The doctor is pretty sure he's going to make it. He didn't have any identification on him though, that's why it took a couple of days for the authorities to figure out who he is. Now the police want to question Doyle about the shooting." 

"Bollocks!" Bodie snapped. "Doyle's not capable of doing that."

"I spoke with the investigating officer. He seems to think that Gavin suing Doyle over the house is a pretty good motive for killing him."

"Where was he shot?"

"Lower back."

Bodie half grinned. "Geographical location, you berk."

Murphy snickered. "Underground car park on Victoria Street. Somebody shot him from behind while he approached his car. The bloke who does maintenance on the building happened to show up for work right after it happened and called an ambulance."

"Did Hughes identify the shooter?"

"He's in a coma," Murphy explained. "Lost a lot of blood, was unconscious, had been in surgery for hours. Doctors don't know if he'll make it."

"Doyle's not involved in this, Murph." Bodie glanced down the hall to see if there was any sign of Doyle returning.

"I know that. But he needs to be questioned."

"I'll bring him back to headquarters. We can talk to him there."

"Righteo." Murphy paused a second before continuing. "There's more."

"Bloody hell. What else?" Bodie massaged his left temple with the tips of his fingers, willing away the headache he felt brewing to life.

"No, it's good news, mate. Your hunch paid off. I just picked up the computer printout with the search criteria you came up with... we have a hit."

Bodie straightened, listening intently.

"Everything fits," Murphy went on, "from the recently deceased father to the money to the fact he lives in Totteridge."

The back of Bodie's neck began to itch. "His name?"

"Arthur Wadsworth. Got a photo ID here, and it matches the description Doyle gave us."

"Perfect." Bodie glanced down the hall again, toward the exit doors. Doyle really should have been back by now. A tingle of apprehension suddenly flowed down his spine. "Hang on a sec, Murph." Bodie pushed away from the wall and hurried down the hall. He rammed through the doors that led out to the car park and scanned the area, looking for Doyle's car. When he spotted the white Ford Escort, his heart began to race. The driver's door was open and the overhead light was on. Checking inside, Bodie saw nothing that would indicate what had happened to Doyle. As he shifted position, he stepped on something and looked down.

Doyle's car keys lay in a heap at his feet.

Bodie straightened and yelled Doyle's name, frantically taking in every inch of the large car park. He spun on his heel, did a three-sixty, and continued calling for him. From his RT, he could hear Murphy's voice demanding to know what was wrong.

"Doyle's gone," Bodie growled into the radio. "The bastard got him."

True panic thickened Bodie's brain, numbed him, paralysed his muscles. He could hear Murphy say something, but didn't understand a word that was spoken. 

A cold breeze blew across the car park, chilling him to the bone. Along the busy street, cars moved at a steady pace. Behind him, people began to meander out to get into their cars, chatting and laughing, looking forward to going home to their nearest and dearest.

Bodie barely heard them. The words from Arthur Wadsworth's journal came back to him with haunting clarity...

_It's easy. He's so surprised, he doesn't even struggle. The knife slides between his ribs like an oar through quiet water. Blood gushes from the wound..._

Bodie narrowed his eyes and gazed into the night. "It's not going to happen," he said through clenched teeth. "I'll find you, Ray. Or die trying."

***

The moment Doyle came to, he realised where he was. _Exactly_... where he was.

Pressing his lips tightly together, he swallowed the scream that wanted to form, the panic that had begun to rise in his throat.

He fought down the terror, fought it with everything he had. He wasn't five years old anymore. He was a grown man, and if he kept his head, he could handle this. He _could._ Really.

God, how could he have been so blind? How could he not have realised? It all made sense now. He would have laughed at his own stupidity, but it would have used up too much precious air.

Forcing himself to calm down, he slowly inhaled. The air inside the boot was hot and thick, musty, smelling of motor oil and grime. Something rigid poked into his hip, but he couldn't imagine what it could be. He lay on his side, slightly curled, his knees bumping against the spare tyre.

Reaching up, he let his fingers move along the inside of the lid. Then forward, then behind him. The boot was only slightly bigger than he was, but he did have a little wiggle room.

How long had he been in there? How much air had he used up? How much remained? How long before it would run out and he would drift off to sleep and not wake up?

Doubling his fists, he pounded on the underside of the lid. With each strike, his panic increased until he hit harder and harder, until he was pummelling the metal like a street fighter thrashing an enemy.

Gasping for air, he began kicking, thrashing about, letting his fear and anger out, venting his rage, his humiliation and terror on the space that confined him.

Tears trickled down his face and he bit back a sob that threatened to escape. He closed his eyes, continuing to kick and yell until his rage was spent, his lungs had emptied and his flame of hope diminished to a tiny, fragile flicker.

With one final blow to the lid, he let his hands fall to his chest, holding his bruised knuckles against his throat, no longer able to hold back the sob. Finally, he lay still and quiet, his muscles nearly spent from the exertion.

" _Bodie_ ," he gasped. His voice sounded tired, strained, but somehow talking out loud made him feel not so alone. "I love you. Why didn't I have the courage to tell you when I had the chance? Life _is_ too short. Sometimes even shorter than we expect. Should have told you... Should have let you know..."

His voice trailed off into a throaty whisper. "I love you, you arrogant, stubborn, funny, tender man."

Closing his eyes again, he saw his mother's face. He was grateful that she was no longer alive to bear the loss of having another son die this way. How ironic and cruel the fates were to do this again. 

Doyle's heart jumped suddenly. What if they never found him? What if the car was parked in the woods somewhere, abandoned to time and the elements?

No. That wasn't right. It didn't fit Arthur's journal. In the dream log, Arthur had used a knife and stabbed Doyle with it. It wouldn't work if he simply suffocated in the boot of a car. No. His fate wasn't sealed quite yet.

He swallowed, and scrubbed away the tears. Doubling his fists again and steeling his spine, he prepared himself for battle.

The scent of chloroform still clung to his clothes, making him feel lightheaded, or perhaps it was from lack of oxygen, but he fought not to go under again. Time was of the essence. He had work to do if he expected to save his own life.

***

Robert's mansion in Totteridge had been built just after World War II, amid towering oaks, and offered a view of the beautifully maintained gardens. When he bought the place two years ago, he'd left the decorating to a professional. He'd liked what the woman had done well enough, but it had that showroom quality about it that made it clear Robert had nothing to do with the final outcome. As long as he had a kitchen with food in it, a bed at night, and a housekeeper to make sure everything worked and the bills got paid, he didn't care.

Though the rest of the place was comfortably furnished in relaxing colours, his home office was every bit as high-tech as his office back at work.

As he eased back in his chair, his eyes never left the small surveillance monitors on the far wall. Three rows across, three down. Nine views from which to choose, and nothing happening on any of them.

Three hours ago he'd watched as the first monitor flickered to life. Through the grainy picture a car had pulled out of a garage and headed down the long drive. Immediately Robert had contacted his field agent, Russell Lawson, and set a tail in motion. 

All had gone as planned, until he'd got a return phone call from Lawson an hour later informing him the subject had slipped away due to an accident that had trapped him on Westminster Bridge.

Robert glanced at the telephone sitting on his desk. Perhaps he should call Will, warn him. But warn him of what? Going for a drive in the city wasn't a crime, and that might be all that this was.

Moving his gaze away from the phone, he set his attention back to the monitors again. As he watched, the same car that had driven away three hours ago turned onto the drive, pulled into the garage, and cut its engine. Robert narrowed his eyes on the screen. Everything looked normal, but it wasn't. He _knew_ it.

Hell, anything could have happened in the city in those three hours – another lady in a purple dress, another tramp in an alley, another old man fishing quietly in his boat. The authorities wouldn't know about it until somebody found the body.

While he watched the monitor, the car door opened. Nothing seemed amiss, as far as he could tell. Unfortunately, the driver had his back to the camera, face obscured. As he began to walk away from the vehicle, there was a slight pause at the boot, then a gloved hand reached out and slowly stroked along the bumper.

When the kitchen door opened, the interior camera picked up the action. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. There was no staff moving about tonight. The house was empty. Convenient, Robert thought. He suspected it had been that way other nights, too. 

On the console to the right, a red light flashed in warning. Somebody was coming to his own house for a visit. Switching on the monitor that displayed the entrance to his drive, he recognized his brother's Capri.

By the time Robert reached the front door, he could hear a fist pounding on it as curses filled the air. Throwing the safety locks, he yanked the door open to face his furious brother.

Bodie lunged over the threshold, grabbing Robert by the collar. Shoving him up against the door frame, Bodie snarled, "What kind of security cameras did you install at Arthur Wadsworth's house, and how do I get past them?"

Without moving a muscle, Robert said quietly, "Let go of me, Will."

Bodie shoved harder. "How do I get into Wadsworth's house undetected."

Robert cocked his head. "So you figured it out."

"Yeah, I figured it out, no thanks to you."

Bodie pressed his face close to Robert's, blue eyes hard with fury and purpose. "Doyle is missing. Kidnapped. According to the diary, Arthur kills him with a knife. If anything happens to Doyle, I'm holding you personally responsible!"

"Bloody hell." With a twist of his body, Robert thrust his hands between them and broke the death grip Bodie had on his collar. "Come with me."

As they hurried through the house toward the office, Robert said, "I've been monitoring the surveillance cameras. I can get us past the security system, no problem. But what if Doyle's not there?"

"He's there."

At the door to the office, Robert stopped. "How do you know?"

"Because that's got to be the plan. That's where the murder will take place, in Arthur's room. Doyle's blood on his hands. It'll be the final blow. It's what will put him away for good. He'll either get arrested or turn himself in. Either way, he's finished."

Robert pointed to the third monitor. "That's Arthur's bedroom. He's in bed. Been there since about ten."

Bodie's eyes narrowed on the screen. "He won't even know what happened until he wakes up with blood on his hands and Doyle's body on his floor. How far is it to Arthur's house from here?"

"About five miles."

Bodie gave a brisk nod. "Let's go."

***

Doyle scooted around until his feet were pressed against the interior wall of the boot. He knew something about cars now that he hadn't known when he was five, not that it would have made any difference back then. He'd been too little to kick out the back seat – but he wasn't little any more.

His head was spinning and he felt weak. His skin was wet and clammy, his breathing laboured.

It was now or never.

Bringing his knees up, he thrust out, kicking the interior wall where the seat would be. It didn't budge. He pulled back and kicked again, harder this time. Something gave. Encouraged, Doyle kicked again, and it gave a little more. A few more well-placed kicks and the back seat broke away from the frame. Writhing around, he used his hands to shove the seat forward a few inches. Immediately he put his face to the opening, taking a deep breath. Then another, and another. Relief eased his panic. He wasn't out of the boot yet, but he wouldn't suffocate, not today, anyway.

Turning so he was on his side, he put his shoulder to the seat, planted his feet on the opposite side, and shoved as hard as he could. The seat moved forward a few more inches. Just as he felt it begin to give way, he heard a click and froze.

The lid of the boot suddenly popped open and the interior light flicked on.

Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness, he blinked several times, trying to assess the person standing before him, car keys in one hand, gun in the other.

His captor smiled and motioned at him to get out of the boot. "I'm happy to see you're still alive. Sadly, that's a condition that won't last much longer."

As Doyle uncurled his body and climbed out, he held on to the bumper to keep from falling. The chloroform, combined with lack of fresh air, not to mention yelling and kicking, had weakened him considerably. But his brain still functioned just fine, and that was all he needed.

Raising his head, Doyle looked into the deadest blue eyes he'd ever seen. "When you touched me, before the chloroform," he said, "I saw it all. Everything."

"Really."

Doyle nodded slowly, buying as much time as he could. With each passing second, his strength was returning, and he was going to need it.

"I know what you have in mind. It's never going to work," Doyle said. "The police aren't idiots. There's no way you can get away with this."

***

As Bodie threw the car into gear and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, all he could think about was Doyle in the hands of a murderous madman. He may already be dead for all he knew--

No... he stopped that train of thought before it could intensify itself. If Doyle was dead, Bodie would know it. He may not have fully accepted Doyle's abilities, but if being psychic was akin to a sense of finely tuned intuition, _that_ he understood.

Doyle was alive – Bodie would know if he weren't.

But Doyle could be suffering. That alone was enough to break his heart and send a fire racing through his blood.

Just then, he felt something of Doyle move through his body. Doyle's life force, energy, thoughts, soul, for all he knew. The two of them were connected to each other in some way he never had been with another human being. He relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel a little, as certain as he could be about anything on this earth that Doyle loved him. Perhaps Doyle hadn't said it back, and perhaps that was okay, but it was there all the same. Bodie knew it.

"Turn here," Robert said, gesturing to a road that veered off to the left. "About half a mile down, there's a wrought iron fence on the right. I'll tell you where to park so the cameras won't pick us up."

As they drove along the smoothly paved street, the headlights reached out in front of them, illuminating tufts of grey fog blowing over the road.

"Got a match on that partial print we found on the diary," Bodie said.

Robert nodded. "The brother."

"Right. Terence Wadsworth was brought in on a drink driving charge a few years ago. His big shot lawyer uncle got the charges dropped, but not before he was fingerprinted."

Robert nodded again. "Arthur began to suspect it might be his brother, so we set up the hidden cameras to monitor Terence's activities. Terence has been slipping him knock-out drops, reading his journal, and mimicking the murders Arthur had dreamt about."

"Bastard." Bodie snarled.

"That would be my – pull over here," Robert ordered. "There's a locked side gate next to the garages. I know the code."

A moment later, letting the gate close quietly behind him, Bodie pulled his weapon and moved silently through the shadows of the large garage. He could see a silver Aston Martin, a gold Porsche, and a black Mercedes. The Mercedes had its boot wide open and it appeared as if somebody had attempted to kick out the back seat.

Panic hit him right in the middle of his gut.

Bloody hell, Terence had locked Doyle in the boot. His eyes closed for a moment and he felt nauseous. What had Doyle gone through, locked inside a car... again? What kind of terror had he endured? Terence couldn't have come up with a better way to torture Doyle than to lock him inside that small, dark space.

Inside the boot, on the floor lay a crumpled rag. Judging from the lingering scent, it had been doused with chloroform. Bodie let his anger roll through him, chill his blood, strengthen his resolve.

Robert had drawn his own weapon and sidled up next to Bodie. Glancing into the boot, Robert said quietly, "No blood. He's okay, Will. Doyle got up and walked out. He's smart and resourceful. We'll find him."

Bodie lifted his gaze, and the two brothers locked eyes for a minute. For the first time, he saw worry, maybe even fear, on Robert's face.

Simultaneously, they glanced at the house, at the partially open kitchen door. Since there appeared to be only a few lights on inside the house, Bodie hoped they could make their way through it without being detected.

"As soon as we get in," Robert whispered. "I'll disable the security system. It's in a small room off the kitchen."

Bodie nodded. "I'll head upstairs. Follow me when you're done."

As the two men silently moved through the kitchen door, the silence was suddenly shattered by the sound of a gun blast. Upstairs, a window smashed, and someone yelled.

" _Doyle_." Bodie mouthed his name, unable to find any breath in his body to give it voice. A second later he broke into a run, his brother hard on his heels.

***

Doyle flattened himself against the bedroom wall, his heart racing. While his bones had frozen stiff, his muscles had gone weak. Against his heaving ribs, he felt the hard barrel of a gun.

"That was a clever move, Doyle," Terence said sarcastically. "Try knocking the gun out of my hand again, and I won't care how I kill you. I'll simply do it."

Glancing around the room, Doyle noticed a figure lying prone across the bed, and guessed it must be Arthur. Gesturing toward him with his chin, Doyle rasped, "Is he dead?"

Terence chuckled. "Now, what good would killing him do? If I'd wanted him dead, I'd have done it months ago." He gave a little shrug. "If I had killed him, suspicion would have fallen on me. This way, he's convicted of murders even _he_ thinks he committed, and I get all the sympathy and none of the blame."

Doyle's mouth went dry. Licking his lips, he said, "You've been drugging him, haven't you? So he'd be asleep on the nights you went out to kill."

Terence laughed as though Doyle had just told a great joke. "How else could I make sure he didn't have an alibi? I'll tell you, that dream log of his was a stroke of genius. When I read it, I felt like it was the answer to my prayers. And it was fun, too. A real test of my skills."

"Your _skills_?" Doyle stared into the eyes of the man who held his life in his hands. "Killing innocent people is a _game_ to you?"

"No," Terence said. "Of course not." His blue eyes sparkled with a menace so astounding Doyle wanted to look away. "I have an infinite capacity to compartmentalise. I set aside my human feelings and focus on the job. In order for the plan to work, people had to die. I'm sorry for it, but that's just the way it had to be."

Stepping back, Terence lowered the gun a little as his expression changed from anger to regret.

"You have to understand, Doyle," Terence said. "I worked my arse off for my father. I got the highest grades in every school I attended, I graduated with honours, I even ran the company when Dad fell ill. I did it all, while Arthur played, gambled, partied, and screwed everything in skirts."

Taking a breath, Terence gazed around the large room, but Doyle was sure the man wasn't seeing his brother's room. Instead he was seeing a whole different world, a world in which Terence Wadsworth ruled.

"I drove myself," Terence went on, "night and day, with board meetings and data analyses, trips all over the world to talk to our subsidiaries and our customers. I _made_ that company work," he hissed.

Terence's eyes suddenly filled with tears, but he angrily swept them away, as though they were burning his flesh. Taking another breath, he raised the barrel of the gun to Doyle's chest.

"I expected to inherit the company," Terence choked. "I adored my father, and I know he loved me. But he never saw _me_ , saw what _I_ did, the contributions _I_ made. And the truth became known to me the day he died and I discovered he'd left everything to Arthur. It was as though I'd literally been stabbed in the back."

Doyle tried not to look at the gun, but his eyes kept drifting down to it, wishing it would point in some other direction.

"So you decided to eliminate Arthur, one way or the other," Doyle said.

Terence sniffed, then blotted his nose on his sleeve. "Killing Arthur outright would have raised all kinds of suspicions. I tried to get him to step down, convince him I was better suited to run the company. He could still party, spend loads of money... but no. No, he decided it might be fun to stand at the helm of my father's empire, the empire _I_ should have inherited."

Doyle glanced around the room again. The door through which they'd entered stood open. Behind him, there was another door, but who knew where that led... right into a cupboard, for all he knew. The door closer to the bed was probably a private bathroom. Of course, there was always the broken window.

"... slipped things into his drinks and food to make him sick, give him nightmares, sleepless nights," Terence was saying. He kept talking as though he needed to tell somebody the whole sordid tale. Terence had been holding all this in for a year, and now he literally had a captive audience. He could unburden himself with impunity, since he probably figured Doyle would be too dead to pass the information along.

Terence paced the room for a moment, then turned again to Doyle.

"It started getting really good when he found the shoe. He was utterly convinced he'd killed her."

Doyle's pulse jumped. "Laura Sullivan's shoe? The woman who was strangled in St. James's Park?"

Moving to the window, Terence pulled the heavy curtain aside using the barrel of the gun, and looked out into the darkness. "From then on, I began getting more creative, making sure Arthur had blood on his hands or clothes when he woke up. I made certain he saw the newspaper articles about that old tramp in the alley and the guy in the fishing boat. I thought he'd crack any second, but he never did. _Sit_ ," Terence ordered him. "There." He gestured with the gun to a plush chair in front of the massive flagstone fireplace that took up the entire wall of the bedroom.

Never taking his eyes off the gun, Doyle eased his shaking body into the chair. As soon as he'd settled, Terence moved to the desk by the broken window, opened the drawer, and with a gloved hand removed a long, thin blade.

"My brother uses this as a letter opener," Terence said with a laugh. "It has his prints all over it."

"Why'd you come to my house that day?"

"So you'd follow me, get my vehicle registration number, and give it to the police. Hell, I gave you every clue, practically drew you a bloody map."

Doyle raised his chin. "You wanted me to get your car number. Wanted me to give it to the police so they'd find Arthur."

"Exactly. But when nobody put two and two together, I decided to move things along a little more quickly."

Doyle tried to get a line on Terence, a weakness, something he could use against the man. Looking Terence in the eye, he said, "Where's your humanity? Even people who are bad have some redeeming qualities."

"Perhaps I used to," Terence said with a sigh. "A long time ago, but I lost it somewhere along the way, and I don't care to get it back. When we were children, I loved Arthur. I suppose I still do, however there are more important things in life than love. Love never got _me_ anywhere, now did it? Money. Power. That's what's important. One day I just decided I'd do anything to have as much of both as I could get."

"You think killing me will end this? They'll find me here and assume Arthur murdered me?"

Instead of answering, Terence glanced at his watch. "It's been lovely chatting with you, but it's getting late. I need to kill you so I can leave. When the servants arrive in the morning, they'll find your body on my brother's bedroom floor, your blood on his hands." He glanced at Arthur's prone form. "He should be awake by then. He'll think he actually killed you, so I'm sure he'll go willingly-"

"No, Terence, I won't."

Doyle spun around in his chair in time to see Arthur sit up on the bed, a revolver in his hand, rage in his eyes.

As Terence stared in shock at his brother, Doyle leapt out of the chair and bolted for the open bedroom door, slamming the light switch off as he ran, plunging the room into darkness.

The sound of a gun blast made him cry out as the wood in the doorjamb next to his face exploded. Didn't stop him, though. He didn't stop to see who'd fired or whether the bullet had found its mark. He just kept running.

***

Bodie finished calling for backup and shoved his RT back into his jacket. Two more shots exploded from somewhere upstairs. Running for the wide staircase, he and Robert reached the bottom step at the same time. Without so much as glancing at each other, weapons drawn, they started up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Just when Bodie made it to the top step a little ahead of his brother, a shadow appeared in the darkened bedroom about ten feet down the hall to his right. He caught the glint, and realised the figure in the doorway was armed.

"Drop your weapon!" Bodie yelled. Clutching his gun in both hands, he raised it straight in front of him.

His eyes glued on the figure, Bodie began to inch forward when he felt fingers coil hard around his collar. Robert jerked him off balance, then quickly stepped in front of him.

From the shadows at the opposite end of the hallway a second figure appeared, a shot rang out. A split second later, Robert lurched against Bodie's shoulder, knocking him down, trapping Bodie's gun hand between them.

Another shot from the shadowy hallway went wide. Robert raised his arm and squeezed off a shot, then slumped against Bodie.

As he wrestled himself out from under his brother and stood, the figure in the doorway stepped into the hall – Arthur Wadsworth. A gun dangled loosely from his limp arm, a wash of red blood smeared his shoulder. His face was pale and haggard as he slid to the carpet.

"Terence. The back stairway," Arthur managed. Raising his arm, he pointed down the hall. "That way."

Bodie spun to face his brother.

"Goddammit!" Bodie shouted, grabbing Robert by the arm, yanking him up, shoving him back against the wall. "What the hell were you doing?"

Instead of glaring back at him, Robert blinked slowly, his eyes gone dull and sleepy. As Bodie watched, Robert's lips curved into a smile, then faded as his legs seemed to go out from under him.

Bodie caught Robert in his arms just before his body hit the floor. Easing his brother onto the carpet, he drew his hand away and realised it was sticky with blood.

"Robert? Shit, _no_... God, what..."

Robert's eyes pinched open. "You didn't see Terence. I did."

"So you stepped in front of me to take a bullet, you stupid arse! Why?"

His voice harsh, his breathing laboured, Robert whispered, "You're... my brother."

The two men stared at each other for a second, then Bodie blinked.

"I've got to go," Bodie rasped. "You okay?"

"I'll live."

Bodie squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Arsehole."

"Berk." Robert smirked.

On the floor in front of the bedroom doorway, Arthur let out a long moan.

"I'll take care of him," Robert said. With a flick of his gaze down the hall, he bit out, "Go get that bastard for me, will you?"

***

Doyle knew he had a good head start, but the house was so dark, he was losing valuable time just trying to figure out where he was and not bump into any of the furniture – or Terence's gun.

Having been brought onto the estate inside the boot of a car put him at a disadvantage. He hadn't seen the road, landscape, or even what the house looked like until he'd walked into the back of the house from the garage.

After fleeing Arthur's bedroom, it had been pure dumb luck that he'd found a staircase leading down to what appeared to be a workroom off the kitchen.

Keeping low, Doyle crept along as quickly as he dared, heading toward what appeared to be a door. Light coming from somewhere else in the house eased the shadows a little, helping him find his way. All around him it was deathly quiet. Any noise he made could bring Terence down on him in an instant.

When he reached the door, he turned the handle and opened it only as far as he needed to inch through, then silently closed it behind him. He stood on some kind of patio surrounded by large oak trees. The already dark grounds were made even darker by the branches swaying high overhead and the dense fog that lay low on the earth like a damp blanket. Faint moonlight tried to shine through the fog, but it was a losing battle.

A few feet away from the patio, Doyle caught sight of a path that led away from the house and into what looked like a garden. Beyond that the mist obscured everything and he had no idea what he'd be running into.

However, he did know what lay behind him, so whatever was ahead of him couldn't be any worse.

As he plunged into the fog, he heard the door through which he'd just exited being flung open. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes were met with only grey mist. He quickened his pace, keeping his attention focused on his feet, hoping the brick pathway would lead to some sort of safety.

He considered trying to make his way back to the garage to get a car, but it was unlikely any of the cars had their keys conveniently dangling in the ignition. Besides, that was something Terence would probably anticipate. Best to stay clear of that area.

As he stumbled along, Doyle's eyes grew used to the darkness. Throwing another glance over his shoulder, he left the path and slid behind a trunk of an enormous elm tree, flattening himself against the rough wood.

Slowly, he eased himself down into a crouch as far as he could, held his breath, and listened.

Nothing. 

He wondered if perhaps Terence was doing the same thing.

The air was cold, sending shivers through Doyle's body. He rubbed his arms, trying to warm up but it was no use. The mist dampened his hair, his skin. His clothing felt wet and uncomfortable.

The snap of a twig a few feet away made his heart jump. He wasn't wearing white, however his jade-coloured shirt may be light enough to be seen in the fog, and Terence, dressed all in black, would be nearly invisible.

Doyle looked around. Eerie shapes, tree branches dipping low to the ground, rocks, thorny bushes, all became barriers to his freedom.

"Doooyyyle," Terence's voice taunted him from a few yards away. 

Shit, Terence was much closer than Doyle had anticipated. His only option at the moment was to stay where he was until Terence either moved off in another direction or walked by.

Footsteps in the dark, receding, it seemed, in the opposite direction. Doyle shivered, but whether it was from the cold or sheer terror, he couldn't have said. Wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and Terence, Doyle moved. As he stepped away from the tree, his foot kicked a small stone, sending it rolling away. A second later, it connected with the side of a metal rake lying at the edge of the path. The clang the contact made resonated loudly through the quiet night air and Doyle bit his bottom lip, knowing that Terence had to have heard it.

He moved quickly, hoping he could be somewhere else by the time Terence reached the spot where Doyle had been standing. As he rounded a large, leafy bush, he skidded to a halt.

"Hello, Ray, love," Terence cooed. The gun he held was pointed straight at Doyle's heart.

Doyle let his arms drop to his sides in capitulation. There was nowhere left to run, and they both knew it.

"Change of plans," Terence said, moving quickly forward. "Unexpected company. Instead of killing you, I need you as a hostage. Come on." He gestured with the barrel of the gun. "This way."

Knowing that if he was taken away by this madman he'd surely die, Doyle decided his only option was to put his life into his own hands. As they walked along the path leading up to the garage, Doyle's eyes roamed the ground for any type of weapon he could use against Terence. Spotting a medium sized rock a few feet ahead, Doyle pretended to trip, falling to his knees. As Terence grabbed him by his arm and yanked him roughly to his feet, Doyle snatched up the rock undetected.

Curling his fingers around his weapon, Doyle quickly twisted around, leapt forward, and slammed the rock against the side of Terence's head as hard as he could. Terence screamed and fell to his knees. 

A few seconds later, Bodie came barrelling through the fog, grabbed Terence's arm and flipped him onto his stomach. Pressing his knee into Terence's back, Bodie retrieved the dropped gun. From his back pocket he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them first on one wrist, then the other.

Out of the mist, men with guns and torches emerged, swarming the area. Floodlights came on, washing the darkness with bright light. Blinking rapidly, Doyle covered his eyes and turned his head away.

When he looked back, Bodie had risen to his feet and was coming toward him. Before he could move, strong hands latched onto his shoulders. Holding Doyle at arm's length away from him, Bodie looked him up and down. "Tell me you're all right," he panted, sounding like he'd just run a thousand miles and more.

Doyle looked up at Bodie, at his smudged face, his rumpled hair, his grin and practically threw himself into Bodie's arms. As Bodie wrapped his arms around him and placed his cheek against Doyle's hair, Doyle spoke the words he'd been longing to say ever since Bodie'd said them to him in the car. "I love you. God, Bodie. Should have told you before, but I-"

"It's okay, Ray," Bodie soothed. "You don't have to-"

"Yes, I do!" Doyle insisted. "I love you. Just didn't know how to tell you."

Bodie's bright, happy grin made Doyle's stomach do a little flip. "And I love you," he said, voice warm and mellow. "Even if you are a stubborn, pig-headed-"

"Hey!" Doyle laughed and swatted at Bodie's arm. 

It was done. It was done, and now that it was, Doyle wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life in Bodie's arms, walking by his side.

"Tell me the truth, Ray." Bodie lifted Doyle’s face with a knuckle, eyes serious. "Are you really all right? I know you were locked in the boot of the-"

"I'm fine." Doyle smiled at him. "I found the strength to finally deal with my demons. I kicked me way out of that boot, Bodie. Harry would have been proud of me. I would have got away, too, but Terence showed up."

Bodie glanced around, and seeing that they were alone, pulled Doyle to him. "I'm proud of you," he whispered, and took Doyle's mouth in a tender, loving kiss.

Pulling back a little, Doyle asked, "Do you finally believe I'm psychic? That I can see other people's dreams?"

Bodie looked at him for a long time, then said with a wry smile, "Perhaps one more small test is in order."

"Test?" Doyle said warily.

"Close your eyes and tell me what I dreamt last night. If you get it right, you'll have made a believer out of me. Deal?"

Doyle smiled. "Deal."

Reaching out, Doyle took Bodie's hand and curled his fingers around it. He had only lowered his eyelids for a second before he immediately raised them again.

"Oh!" Doyle laughed, looking deeply into Bodie's eyes. "We'll definitely have to try out those positions."

"Bloody right we will." Bodie grinned, bent his head and claimed Doyle's mouth, his soul, his life.

***

Epilogue:

Bodie sat on the sofa in Doyle's living room, an exhausted Doyle plastered against his side. It had been one hell of a long, daunting day and night and it was all finally taking its toll on Doyle. It chilled Bodie to the bone every time he thought of how differently this day could have ended. The reminder sent a shiver down his spine and he tightened his arms, pulling Doyle even closer.

The movement caused Doyle to stir. Doyle shifted a bit and his arm slid even further around Bodie's waist. "Bodie?" he murmured.

"Shh, it's okay, love." Bodie kissed the top of his head. "Everything's fine. You're safe. Go back to sleep."

"Okay," Doyle mumbled before drifting off to sleep again.

"Is he all right?" Collin asked. He carried a tray laden with tea and biscuits into the room and set it down onto the coffee table.

"Yeah, just knackered," Bodie replied, slowly caressing Doyle's arm with his fingers.

"I can imagine. Want some?" Collin gestured toward the tea.

"Not yet," Bodie answered quietly.

After pouring himself a cup, Collin sat down in the chair opposite the sofa and asked, "How's your brother?"

"The doctors got the bullet out of his chest. He's going to hurt like hell for a while, but he'll live."

"I'm so glad." Collin blew on his tea before taking a cautious sip. "God, I'm so relieved that this whole thing is finally over. What's going to happen to the others?"

"Gavin Hughes is going to make it. When he woke up, the first thing he did was identify Terence Wadsworth as the one who shot him. Arthur Wadsworth has been treated for a superficial gunshot wound and was discharged."

Collin shook his head sadly. "Terence did so much damage. I'm grateful he didn't harm Ray."

Bodie nodded. He couldn't even begin to explain how relieved he was that Doyle walked away from this incident safe and unhurt. "Terence Wadsworth confessed to everything. He not only committed the three murders to duplicate his brother's dream log entries, he pushed Doyle in front of that bus."

Collin sucked in a breath. "Why on earth..."

"Anger mostly, we think. The man is a vindictive bastard. He felt Arthur should have talked to _him_ , not gone to a dream interpreter. He wanted Arthur out of the way, but he also wanted his brother to acknowledge him as the head of their family. It only came to him later, after he'd read about Arthur's dream of killing Doyle, that he decided to hold off until the timing worked to his advantage."

Collin settled back into his chair. "But why did he shoot Gavin?"

"After Terence discovered Arthur was seeing Doyle, he tracked down Gavin Hughes and befriended him. I guess he was hoping to get some insider information on Doyle. Terence appears to be very controlling and manipulative. Knowing he was going to get rid of Arthur and Doyle, he needed to tie up any loose ends, which meant he had to kill Gavin-"

"Because Gavin knew what he looked like," Collin cut in.

"Right." Bodie tipped his head in affirmation.

"What happens now?"

"Terence will face three charges of murder plus a whole lot of other offences, including kidnapping. There's no chance he's ever going to harm anyone ever again." Bodie lightly kissed the top of Doyle's head. "Gavin Hughes has dropped the case against Doyle."

"Oh, bloody fantastic." Collin bounced a little in his seat. "That bastard doesn't deserve a penny from Ray. I mean, I never wanted to see him nearly killed, but he really was an arse. He was horrible to Ray."

"Yes, I heard," Bodie said, his tone serious. "Ray told me."

"Did Gavin say why he decided to let it go?" Collin asked, curious.

"A little persuasion can go a long way." Bodie winked.

Collin's eyebrows rose to his forehead and he stared at Bodie. "You-"

"Let's just say he won't be bothering Ray ever again and leave it at that."

Collin opened his mouth then closed it again. "Thank you, Bodie," he said sincerely. "It means a lot to me that you were looking out for Ray."

"You're welcome." Bodie smiled.

"You really do love him, don't you?" Collin grinned happily.

"I do." More than he could ever say.

"I love you, too." Doyle's sleepy voice interrupted them.

Collin chuckled and asked, "How long have you been awake?"

After Doyle stretched, he snuggled into Bodie once again. "Not long."

"You know, it's rude to eavesdrop," Bodie said, giving Doyle a playful squeeze.

"Wasn't," Doyle murmured into Bodie's chest. "Appreciate that you took care of Gavin for me, but next time, I'll fight me own battles."

"You _were_ listening, you little git!" Bodie slapped Doyle's arse teasingly before moving his fingers to attack Doyle's side. Doyle yelped, then laughed as he tried to wiggle away. Bodie stopped his retreat with his other hand, and continued to bombard Doyle with tickles.

"Bodie!" Doyle laughed harder. "Enough! Please!"

In a quick, fluid movement, Bodie flipped Doyle onto his back. He straddled Doyle's hips, pinned his hands above his head and gazed down at his still giggling lover. 

Bodie grinned broadly and cupped the side of Doyle's face in his hand, stroking his thumb along soft skin. He lowered his head and as he claimed Doyle's mouth in a long, passionate kiss, the feeling of contentment, of warmth and happiness washed through him. He never expected this, never dared hope to have someone he could share his life with. Yet here it was. In the blink of an eye he had it all. Had everything he ever wanted right here with this man he held in his arms.

THE END


End file.
